Whoever Fights Monsters
by Kurt
Summary: Chapter 9 is up, and this story is COMPLETE! Prequel to settling accounts. A serial killer stalks Buenos Aires, entangling Dr. Lecter, Clarice, and their daughter in his web. Very gory in parts.
1. El Desollador

_Author's note: _

This is a prequel to Settling Accounts. _It's going to get rather gory, thus the rating. _

Disclaimer, in verse this time: 

Hannibal Lecter's a killer so fine 

I will admit, he is not mine 

I do not own the slightest piece 

Of the FBI agent named Starling, Clarice 

They belong to the great Thomas Harris 

Who's got lots of money to fly to Paris 

A favorite author of me and of you 

I've got a kid and a car payment, please don't sue. 

OK, now you know why I write fics and not poetry. 

"Whoever fights monsters should beware lest he become one himself. And when you look into the Abyss, the Abyss also looks into you." –Friedrich Nietzsche 

Buenos Aires was a city under siege. 

The first killings began in January. A girl disappeared and was reporting missing by her frantic parents. As happens all over the world, the police did not treat it seriously. A week or so later, her body was found in a garbage dump in the slums of Buenos Aires. Autopsy reports indicated that she had been kept alive for several days, and fed, but she had been tortured and finally suffered facial lacerations of a type never before seen. Then a second girl met the same fate a few months later. A third and fourth followed. 

All of the murdered girls had not been the poor women forced into prostitution that one might expect as the victims of a serial killer. On the contrary; all of them had been the daughters of privilege. Their families were upper middle class and wealthy. In every case, a symbol of the girls' status had been left behind. In two cases, it was a parochial school badge ripped from their school blazers and left at the scene of their disappearance. In one, it was a necklace. In the last, it was a jeweled rosary. 

Mothers all over the city guarded their daughters more closely. A new industry rose up in security guards, locks, mace, and stun guns. The first letter to the Buenos Aires _Herald_ was sent in May, after the fourth girl disappeared. Rife with misspellings and written in Spanish, it claimed responsibility for the four girls' deaths, promised more, and gave a name to the nightmare stalking young women. _El Desollador --_ the Skinner. 

The police had kept the facial mutilations under wraps. The Skinner's letter to the press forced them to admit what form they had taken. A very nervous police spokesperson had to admit in a local press conference that skin had been 'taken' from the murdered girls. He did not elaborate. It was probably in the public interest that he did not. 

All four girls had been skinned. The form was not the same as an American serial killer, Buffalo Bill, had taken in years before. The girls' faces had been removed, as well as their eyes. The first girl had been sloppily done. The Skinner had improved his technique as he got more practice. The police stepped up patrols. Hundred of officers were on the streets in order to catch the Skinner. 

Two people reading the Buenos Aires _Herald _were quite curious about the Skinner killings. Dr. Alonso Alvarez, a local medical school professor, and his wife Maria, a socialite. Their interest was threefold. First, because they themselves had a sixteen-year-old daughter named Susana. Like all parents, they were worried for the safety of their daughter. Secondly, because the first girl to go missing had been the daughter of one of Dr. Alvarez's co-workers. And thirdly and lastly, because they had once been known as Dr. Hannibal Lecter and Clarice Starling. Clarice Starling had tracked down and killed Buffalo Bill. Dr. Lecter, in his escape from custody in Memphis, actually had removed a policeman's face and worn it. He was curious as to the technique of the Skinner.

They discussed with each other whether it would be possible to quietly volunteer their services. It was, unfortunately, impossible. Dr. Alvarez's days were spent teaching medical students, performing experiments in the University lab, and covering occasional shifts at the university hospital's ER. Although he had been trained in psychiatry, he had not practiced it since they had come to Buenos Aires. It would not be feasible for him to present himself to the authorities as any type of expert. Likewise, while Clarice Starling had the capture of Buffalo Bill under her belt, Maria Alvarez was merely known in upper-crust circles as a socialite and volunteer for her preferred charities. They would either be dismissed as helpful cranks, or worse, draw suspicion to themselves. 

But so far Susana remained safe. To an extent, this did not surprise her parents. She was intelligent, physically fit, and had better judgment than most of her peers. She also knew pistolcraft about as well as any police-academy graduate and knew her way around knives. She did, however, insist on driving herself to and from school. 

And so, on the afternoon of April 2, 2019, sixteen-year-old Susana Alvarez was leaving the private academy she attended and heading for the parking lot. For her sixteenth birthday, she had been given a ten-year-old Mustang she liked a great deal. It was red and a convertible. It was stock when she bought it, but her father had quietly had the car taken to Bonarense Motorsports, where they had installed a supercharger and tweaked a few other things to make the car faster. When the engine was on, the entire car rumbled, down deep in her guts. Susana loved the car's power. Behind the wheel, she felt powerful herself. 

From her book bag, she heard a muffled electronic tone. She pulled her satellite phone out of the outer pocket as she unlocked her door and slid behind the wheel. She glanced at the display. _PAPÀ_. Why was he calling her right after school? 

She pushed TALK on the phone and held it to her ear. 

"Hello, Susana," a metallic, mellifluous voice said. 

"Hello, Papa," she answered in English. Dr. Lecter never spoke Spanish with his daughter. He spoke English, French, or Italian with her. "Are you calling to check on me? Because I haven't even left the school yet." Since the Skinner killings became public knowledge, Susana had been expected to call her father when she arrived at home. Dr. Lecter knew firsthand what monsters lurked in the world.

"No, actually. I wanted to ask a favor of you." 

"What?" 

"I need to send a parcel overseas and I'm dreadfully tied up here. Would you come fetch it and send it off for me?" 

He waited tensely. Susana, like any sixteen-year-old, had fought with her parents as she grew up. The gift of the car had brought about some peace in recent months. 

Susana thought for a moment. The university campus was on the other side of the city, but then again, driving a red convertible on the Buenos Aires highway on a warm spring day was hardly an unpleasant thought. 

"Um, sure. I can. Don't you have a secretary, though?" 

"She's out today. Allergies. And please don't say 'sure'. Peasants speak like that." 

Susana rolled her eyes. "I am most humbly sorry. Please accept my most abject apologies." She adopted a mock English accent. 

"That's more like it." 

"I'll be by around…," she checked her watch. "_las dos y media_._" _

"Pardon?" 

"Two and half. Two-thirty, I mean."

"Excellent. I'll leave your name at the desk." 

"Okay," she said, and hung up. The driver's seat was leather and comfortably warm. She lowered the power top and started the engine. She donned a pair of sunglasses. The pleasing vibration of the engine filled the cockpit. Susana revved the engine a few times, dropped it into gear, and drove off with a great whirl of lateral acceleration. The Mustang's tires screeched. Susana was pleased. She liked doing that. 

A pretty girl in Buenos Aires will usually get noticed. Doubly so when she is behind the wheel of a convertible sports car in the left lane. Susana amused herself on the highway by passing other cars. If they pulled over and let her, or otherwise didn't look interesting, she simply passed them. If they made an issue of it, or if there were boys close to her age in the car, she made a show of passing them at ninety or faster. The Mustang could blow the doors of most of the other traffic. 

She had 88.5 FM on the radio. Foreigner was chopping their way through 'Hot Blooded'. A few boys beeped their horns at her. She either beeped back, stepped up the gas or waved. Her hair blew in the wind. She kept time with the steering wheel, singing along as she knew the lyrics….and there was her exit. 

Susana didn't know many English curses, except the ones she had heard from her mother. Nonetheless, she strung them out in an impressive list and then tacked on her more extensive Spanish repertoire. She was able to get into the other lane and sort of bulldoze a way to the off-ramp. She ignored the curses and lewd proposals thrown in her wake. 

The university was not far, and Susana turned down the university's main drag and parked in front a large building marked ESCUELA DE MEDICINA. She ran up the steps and gave her name to the bored student and ran past him down the hall. As she took the corner, she bumped into a janitor busy mopping the floor. His bucket of dirty rinse-water spilled all over the floor. Susana was horrified.

"_Perdoname. Lo siento muchisimo," _she said. Not much was going right. The janitor simply looked at her and sighed. 

"_Es nada. No problema. Pase usted."_

She continued on to her father's office. A plaque on his door read _Prof. Alonso Alvarez_. She pushed open the door. He was not at his desk. Dr. Lecter's office was decorated with a great deal of china and antiques. A skeleton hung in the corner. A large print of 'Wound Man' hung on the wall. Susana looked at it for a long moment. In the far corner was another door, and she opened it and proceeded into his lab. 

Dr. Lecter was in his medical lab, holding a mouse in his hand. Dr. Lecter's hands were small and well formed for a man's hands. In his other hand was a syringe. The mouse squeaked in mortal fear, as if caught by a predator. 

"There, there," he told the mouse, and gave it an injection. 

"A patient, papa?" Susana asked, smiling. 

He turned and saw his daughter. 

"Ah. Hello, Susana. Thank you for coming. No, this little fellow is part of a university study I am participating in." 

"Is he going to live?" 

The mouse squirmed. Dr. Lecter put the mouse back in its cage. It eyed him suspiciously for a moment and then retreated to its water bottle, where it soothed itself with a hearty drink. 

"I should hope so. We're testing out the efficacy of a new antibiotic. That's what I need you for, actually." He indicated a brown parcel on the table. "The Ministry of Health is demanding this right away or they will require us to start from the outset again." 

Susana nodded and took up the package. She noticed a covered gurney against the wall. 

"Is that—" she asked, then stopped. 

Dr. Lecter pulled himself up to his full height. "That is a cadaver. This _is _a medical school, dear Susana." 

"But you didn't…did you?" 

"I did not." Since beginning his new life in Buenos Aires, Dr. Lecter had found a type of peace. He had not killed anyone in years, and even that he had been sorely provoked. The occasional ER shifts he covered satisfied his need to see human misery. Although he had been tempted at times, especially with rude and hysterical patients, he was quite happy with his new life – money, a strong marriage, a lovely, intelligent daughter – and did not deem it worth the risk. 

"Is there any good meat left or is he just full of formaldehyde?" She grinned impishly. 

"Susana. Please. I need him to instruct students. And you shouldn't discuss that here."

She looked around. "It's just you and me." She squatted and looked in the mouse's cage. "He looks like he can keep his mouth shut." 

He handed her a parcel wrapped in brown paper. "Here is your parcel, Susana," he said. "Thank you so much." 

"You're trying to get rid of me," she accused her father. 

"How about that. Now please. DHL Express closes in an hour." 

Susana pooched out her lower lip at her father, but left with the package. As she departed her father's office, she almost collided with a tall, swarthy man in a white lab coat. He looked at her severely. 

"Excuse me," she said, surprised. 

"I don't think I've seen you around here before," the tall man said. 

"I'm picking up this package for my papa," she answered. 

Dr. Lecter stuck his head into the office. 

"Ah, I see you've met. Dr. Higuara, my daughter, Susana. Susana, that is Dr. Higuara, one of the other professors here." 

"Nice to meet you," Susana said. Dr. Higuara's look was quite penetrating. He had been the subject of many crushes from the secretarial pool. His eyes were very dark, almost black. It was hard to tell where the pupil stopped and the iris began. His hair was similarly black. 

"Alonso, I didn't know you had such an attractive daughter," he said. His voice was deep, rich, and mellifluous. 

Dr. Lecter did not care for the way in which his colleague was looking at his daughter. 

"Indeed, that's her. Come on in the lab, Ramon. I'd like you to see the results." 

Susana broke eye contact with Dr. Higuara, blushed, and fled the hall. On the way out she saw the janitor again. He had almost made it to the end of the hall with his mop.

"I'm really sorry about that before," she murmured. 

"It's no problem, señorita, really." 

As she headed out to the exit, a voice called her back. The student behind the security desk demanded that she sign out as well as in. Susana signed her name and ran out to the Mustang. She pulled out with a screech and a roar of the powerful American engine. 

The Skinner watched Susana go. He already had number five tucked away, learning her lessons. He thought about Susana's trim body, her expensive clothing, and that Mustang parked outside. He thought about those magnificent, rare maroon eyes in a jar on his closet shelf. 

She would be his number six. 


	2. Taken

A few days later, Susana went out to the medical school again to see her father. The reason this time was not because he needed her to play girl Friday. Instead, he had called and offered to meet her for a bite to eat. Susana asked her father if a new shipment of cadavers had come in. He sighed, told her not to be snide, and said he would see her when she arrived. 

The echoing halls were empty when she arrived. The same student seated behind the desk asked her to sign in. As she complied, she felt his eyes moving over her body. She shivered a bit, signed her name, and headed into the school. She wished for a long moment that her uniform skirt was longer. 

The janitor whose bucket she had overturned before saw her coming. Jokingly, he jumped in front of it and held out his arms protectively. Susana grinned nervously and went past him. He smiled at her, displaying yellowing teeth. 

As she walked down the hall, a door opened behind her. 

"Ah. Susana Alvarez," came a deep voice. Susana turned. It was Dr. Higuara. He watched her with detached amusement. His eyes, like inky black pools, fastened on hers. 

"Dr. Higuara," she said, a flush rising to her cheeks. 

"I wonder if I might have a moment of your time," he said calmly. 

Susana stopped. Dr. Higuara reminded her of an old movie star her mother had confessed to having a crush on. Antonio Bandero, or something like that. He ran a hand through his black, glossy hair and folded his arms at her. 

"Of course, doctor," she said, trying to keep from stammering. 

"I am trying to get your father on board with me on a matter I feel strongly about." His voice was deep and rich. Susana felt herself go a bit weak at the knees and cursed herself. _Don't get giddy. He's good-looking, yes._

"I'll help if I can," she said unsteadily. His eyes seemed to bore through her own to the back of her skull. "Papa usually keeps work and home private." 

"This is a matter everyone should be concerned about," he explained. "I wish to introduce programs for poorer students. For those from the provinces." 

Susana understood what he was talking about . Argentina had always been a country of two countries: Buenos Aires, the capital and largest city, and the provinces. There were racial lines as well as class and privilege separating the two. Most white Argentines lived in Buenos Aires. Affirmative action plans were nothing new. 

"I'll ask him," she said. 

"I ask you not only to ask, but to think." He spread his arms. "You've lived in Buenos Aires all your life, have you not?" 

Susana nodded, her mouth slightly open. In the back of her mind she cursed herself for acting like a giddy schoolgirl. 

"There are those much less fortunate than you. I, for example, was born and raised in the provinces. I had to work my way through school as a garbageman." 

"You've come up in the world," she observed. 

"Yes, I have. But I feel it is an obligation to see that those who come after me have it easier." 

"What do you want me to do?" she asked. 

"Simply ask your father to hear me out with an open mind." 

"I'll do that." 

He nodded and smiled at her humorlessly. "Thank you so much." 

Susana murmured a quick goodbye and ran to her father's door, blushing madly. The only other man she knew who could command that level of intensity, or reduce her to that status of giggling schoolgirl, was her father. She closed her father's office door behind her and waited until her pulse stopped racing to announce her presence.

Dr. Higuara watched her leave. The janitor came up to him. He was the only other man in the building who was from the provinces, Dr. Higuara thought sourly. Because of that, he had actually taken some time to know the man instead of simply treat him like a monkey who knew how to mop. 

"She's very pretty, huh?" asked the janitor. His hands described an hourglass shape in the air. 

"Yes. And very underage, and very much a professor's daughter." Dr. Higuara mused. "Pablo, don't bother with girls like that. Girls like that are monsters, even if they don't know it. Monsters of indifference. They are born to money. Very spoiled, very hard to please. They know of people like you and I only as servants. They see their parents treat us as servants, and they come to believe it is their due. They become women like their mothers, marry a wealthy man who provides them with more servants and cars and furs. They never give so much as a thought for the poor, the backwards, or the downtrodden. " He shook his head. "Monsters of indifference," he repeated. "Sometimes, they can change. But not often." 

"I can look, though, can't I?" Pablo said, frowning. 

"Look all you like. But a girl like that will never accept you. Not because of your work, although that's part of it too. Because of your skin. They do the same thing to me." 

"C'mon, doc, you? The ladies are all crazy for you." 

"As an exotic thing, perhaps. Their fathers disapprove." 

Pablo gave up on trying to jolly the doctor into a better mood. "If you say so, doc. I got to get this floor mopped. " 

He returned to his labor, and Dr. Higuara returned to his office. He wasn't sure what had sparked his outburst of philosophical thought. Perhaps because Susana Alvarez seemed to him to be the avatar of the rich, indifferent girl. She would never have to work for a salary at all, let alone get up at five in the morning to work on a garbage truck before attending school full-time. 

_You don't even know her_, he thought. _And perhaps if she can wheedle her father into supporting my proposal, it could actually happen. Don't be so harsh, Ramon._

He heard her and her father passing in the hall, and glanced out at them. Susana caught him looking and pressed herself protectively against her father. He heard his name being mentioned in furtive whispers. He rolled his eyes. Silly, perhaps, to think that there might be a spark of social conscience in a girl like that. 

…

Buenos Aires's best restaurant was not terribly crowded in the mid-afternoon. A few business lunches run terribly overdue, a few groups of wealthy women chatting away while their husbands worked, and Dr. Lecter and his daughter at a table on the side. Dr. Lecter did not sit by the window if he could possibly help it. 

The entrees had been quite good. Dr. Lecter had chosen filet mignon; Susana had chosen the grilled swordfish. He was also pleased to note that his daughter recalled the correct fork to use throughout the meal. All of his effort in teaching her proper etiquette had not gone wasted.

They capped off the meal with cappucino and light conversation. Eventually, Susana turned the discussion to his work. 

"Dr. Higuara is interested in helping the poor," she began. 

Dr. Lecter raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Has he discussed this with you?" 

"In the hallway. He said he was proposing something and wanted you to support him." 

Dr. Lecter thought for a moment before he answered. He was displeased that his colleague had approached his daughter. Dr. Lecter believed strongly in keeping work and family separate. Involving work and pleasure had created problems for him in the past. 

"Dr. Higuara is…quite interested in the problems of the indigenous," he said carefully. "He feels that he has been wronged by racism and a white power structure." 

"There is some of that," Susana agreed. Noting her father's expression, she fell silent. 

"Some, yes. The answer, however, is to bring those of other descents up to the same educational level. Medical school is not the place for lower standards." Dr. Lecter fixed his only daughter with his eyes. "And Dr. Higuara should not have involved you. University procedure is not your concern. I shall…speak to him." 

"He didn't involve me. I don't think he likes me." Susana studied her plate, not liking her father's annoyed mien. 

"He skates along the point of being a reverse racist," Dr. Lecter explained. "He resents all those who have more privilege than he did. He would like, in his heart of hearts, to see those not like him shamed and broken." 

Susana traced a pattern of butter on her plate with a fork. Dr. Lecter sighed. 

"But let's not ruin our time together with such nonsense," Dr. Lecter amended. "I will speak with Dr. Higuara, and you…you have an appointment, I believe." 

"At the salon," Susana confirmed. Dr. Lecter's mouth turned down. He did not want to hear more. For a moment he found it amusing: while Clarice Starling had regarded couture as something shameful, to be studied in magazines in private and hidden away as if pornography, her daughter reveled in facials, waxes, and false nails. 

They bid their goodbyes and returned to their separate destinations. Dr. Lecter returned to the medical school to finish up a few things and speak with Dr. Higuara. That good doctor, however, was not in his office when Dr. Lecter knocked on his door. Dr. Lecter made a note on his calendar to speak with his colleague tomorrow and returned to his experiments. 

Susana went to her appointment at the salon. She indulged her girly side often, and at the best places in Buenos Aires, which meant the best on the continent. There were thin, effeminate gay men to cut and style her hair, Vietnamese immigrants to glue acrylic nails onto her fingers, and Brazilian women to wax her with near-sadistic enthusiasm. There were women ready with warm mitts and papaya to smear on her face. Susana liked this salon very much, as she could get everything she wanted done. She tipped well, was well-liked by the staff, and left much more satisfied with her appearance. 

In the dying spring twilight, Susana started the Mustang in the parking lot behind the salon. The radio came on, playing an American tune, an oldie. Sarah McLachlan strummed an acoustic guitar and sang. Susana knew this song and sang along with the radio. 

"You come out at night  
that's when the energy comes  
and the dark side's light  
and the vampires roam   
you strut your rasta wear   
and your suicide poem  
and a cross from a faith  
that died before Jesus came  
you're building a mystery," 

Behind Susana, the Skinner unfolded his body from where he had tucked himself in the back of the Mustang. The Skinner also came out at night, and privately agreed with the song that the energy did indeed come then. He had tucked himself in the rear seat while Susana underwent the early twenty-first-century rituals that society mandated for wealthy young females. In one hand he held a leather sap. 

Susana saw a motion in her rearview mirror and drew in breath to scream. The Skinner laid the sap against the base of her skull. It was light enough to make sure she was not unduly damaged but heavy enough to do the job. Susana sagged in her seat, her eyes dimming. The Skinner grabbed her and shook her once. She lolled in his grip like a rag doll.

He allowed himself a moment to observe his prize. His lips split in a horrible grin as the song continued. 

"'cause you're working  
building a mystery  
holding on and holding it in  
yeah you're working  
building a mystery  
and choosing so carefully"

He had indeed chosen carefully. He carefully lifted Susana's limp body and carried it over to his own car. No one saw him. The engine squealed in protest as he started it and revved the engine. He looked over at his victim. 

"_Monstrua de indiferencia," _he said. 

__

Author's note: Lyrics by Sarah McLachLan, 'Building a mystery', © 2002, I didn't write them and make no profit off them, and anyone who'd come listen to me sing them should have their head examined anyway. 


	3. Lessons begin and end

__

Author's note: I said it was gonna get gory, and here it does. Those of you with weak stomachs are hereby excused from reading this chapter. 

It was a tense dinner that night at the Alvarez mansion. The servants noticed tension as the shadows grew longer and the light grew dimmer. Miss Susana was not yet back. They asked each other privately if either had seen her, and if that was why the _señora_ was so anxious. Rules remained rules, however, and they did not approach the top floor of the manse. It was probably for the best that they did not. 

Clarice Starling was nervous and tense. She kept stealing glances at her daughter's empty chair. Dr. Lecter had attempted to calm her, but when call after call to Susana's portable phone went unanswered, he began to worry himself. 

"I'm sure she just got together with friends, lost track of time," he said, trying to convince himself as well as her. 

"I'm not so sure. She's never done this before. And with that killer out there—the Skinner—it makes me nervous." Clarice squirmed in her chair. She had always been one to go out and do something rather than sit. 

All right. Treat it like a case. Better than sitting there while her husband tried to assuage her with ideas he only half-believed in himself. 

"When you split up after lunch, where did she say she was going?" Clarice questioned. 

"To the salon," confirmed Dr. Lecter. He shrugged, as if to say that such mysterious rituals were beyond his grasp. 

"Do we know if she made it?" 

Dr. Lecter shrugged again. "I didn't ask her to call me, Clarice. We had just had lunch."

Clarice overturned her bowl of soup and strode from the table. The china bowl shattered on the floor. Dr. Lecter stared at it and then back at the woman he had shared his life with for so many years. 

"Was that necessary, Clarice?" 

"Maybe you can sit there and slop up your soup while your daughter is missing, but I can't," Clarice snapped. "I am going to go and find our daughter. There are dangerous people out there, you know. With that, she turned on her heel and strode from the room. 

She stormed downstairs, grabbing her purse. She couldn't say why she was so nervous all of a sudden. Susana was normally a good kid, maybe she had just had a moment, like most girls did. She shook her head. Somehow, she knew better. She had a feeling in her stomach she had not had for many, many years. The last time she felt this way was when she had been a young girl. When the town's police chief had pulled into their driveway and stood there wringing his hat. 

Clarice jumped into her own car. Dr. Lecter had introduced her to Jaguars and the taste had stuck. The V-12 engine roared, and she was on her way. She pawed through her purse as she went. Keys, wallet, mints, .45, cell phone. All here. In short order the Jag's tires screeched into the parking lot of her daughter's preferred salon. 

She got out of the car and saw the Mustang immediately. It was parked where Susana had left it. The top was down. That sent a bolt of fear through Clarice – Susana loved the Mustang and would never, never have left the top down. She drew the .45 and carefully walked towards the car. The keys were in the ignition. Strike two. Susana knew better than that. 

She reached out towards the keys hanging from the ignition and then pulled her hand back. There might be fingerprints. She did need to check one thing, though. Clarice reached for the console release. The compartment between the seats flipped up. There, Clarice saw what she expected to see. Her daughter's purse. Except for one thing. 

On the passenger seat was Susana's credit card. _Damn fool thing_, Clarice thought. _I keep hoping that one of these days Hannibal will grasp the idea of saying 'no' to her just once._ Then a sudden dread hit her. Didn't the Skinner leave some sign behind? And would a gold Visa with his victim's name emblazoned on it suffice? 

She looked in her own purse. It was neat and orderly, everything having a place and in its place. That was something her daughter had actually imitated her in. She took a pen and carefully lifted Susana's purse from the console. Once it was up and out, the purse fell to pieces, emptying its contents on the floorboards. Clarice could already see where it had been raked with a knife. She bit her lip, her eyes widening. 

Then a hand came down on her shoulder. 

Clarice whirled and raised the pistol. She lowered it immediately when she saw it was a woman who worked at the salon. 

"Can I help you?" the woman asked, looking nervously at the gun. 

"Yes, you can," Clarice whispered, a lump rising in her throat. "You can call the police immediately." 

…

Consciousness came back slowly. First, she was aware of her right hand. It was lying against cold, rough concrete. Her palm stung. Her fingers felt mushed. She tried to flex her fingers and found that she could do that. She tried to lift her arm to her face and found that she could not. 

Next came sound. She heard another girl's voice, crying, speaking rapid Spanish. A man's voice, deep and rich, answered. Neither voice was addressed to her. They seemed far away and muffled. 

After that was very faint light. Susana Alvarez opened her eyes slowly and groaned. There was only a single guttering lightbulb hanging off the wall opposite her. No. Wait. The lightbulb was hanging off the ceiling. Susana was on the floor. She turned her head and examined her surroundings. 

She was in a small, narrow room. The walls were concrete and perhaps seven feet apart. They were a dingy, unpainted gray. The room was longer than it was wide – twelve feet, perhaps – and blocked off on one end by a stout wooden door. 

She tried to sit up and discovered that her hands were trussed behind her back. That didn't make sense. The first misgivings that something was terribly wrong began to trickle into Susana's confusion. She rolled over and managed to sit up, braced against the wall. Her head ached slightly. She tried to remember what had happened to her. All that would come was the memory of a shadow in the rearview mirror of the Mustang. Then, blackness.

Susana did not yell out immediately. Better to seek out what information she could now. She gained her feet shakily and approached the door. It did not move when she prodded it with her foot. She turned around in the narrow cell and grasped the knob. It turned not an inch in her hand. 

Locked. 

She took a deep breath and was about to yell when the other girl beat her to it. It was mostly tears and pleading. _No, no, no,_ over and over. It sounded somehow thick, as if the other girl was speaking through swollen lips. After a minute or two, she stopped. 

Susana was nervous now, and kicked the door with her heel. In response, she heard footsteps approaching the door from the other side. She retreated a few steps in and waited. Two clicks of locks unlocking came from the door. There had to be a deadbolt on the other side. That meant someone had deliberately locked her in here. The door swung open. 

In the doorway was an inhuman figure. Susana recoiled, then tilted her head and looked. It was a man, all right. A man in black pants and no shirt. His chest was quite hairy. He wore a wide leather belt. And on his head was an odd helmet. It looked rather like a Viking helmet, except it came down low over his face, shielding everything but his eyes. Devil-like horns branched off the sides. 

"Who are you?" she asked. 

The man let out a deep chuckle. "Not Who I am. What I am is the question." 

"All right," she said dubiously. "What are you?" 

"I am the Skinner," the man said. "I am More and Greater than a man, little one. You shall learn." 

Susana would have given him a quizzical look, but she did not have time. The Skinner reached out and grabbed a handful of her hair. She yelped. He dragged her forward, out of the cell, and propelled her through the hallway. He was strong, and she didn't put up a fight. He drove her through the basement hall to a larger room. His hand squeezed her upper arm like a python. 

In the room was another girl lying on a cot. She was strapped down to it at wrists and ankles. Three larger straps further secured her. She was dressed in the rags of what appeared to be a Catholic school uniform. It looked like San Miguel High School, Susana thought. The other girl looked at Susana in fear and desperation. 

The idea that she was in serious, serious trouble began to sink into Susana's brain. 

The Skinner sat her down in a heavy wooden chair. He forced her back against it and fastened her in with canvas straps. One across her chest, one across her waist, and one on each ankle. Her arms were wedged uncomfortably behind her. She thought unpleasantly of pictures of the electric chair. 

The Skinner crossed the room and took something from a set of drawers. Susana could hear him clunking around in the drawer. When he turned around, one hand held a bright pink swimmer's cap. The other held a scalpel. 

Susana paled but did not make a sound. At the sight of the bright pink cap, the other girl began to scream. Her mouth lolled open as if she could not close it, and she did not move her head, but she screamed nonetheless. Her eyes bulged with fear. Her tongue lolled listlessly. Tears filled her eyes and she sobbed. 

The Skinner gently put the cap on her head. He was breathing quite loudly in his helmet, and Susana could see his eyes widen with excitement as he slid the cap into place. He sat on the other side of the girl's cot, so that her view was undisturbed. He looked up at her before he began. 

"Pay close heed, little one," he said. "This is where her lessons end – and yours begin." 

Susana's tongue was completely dry. Her mouth felt glued shut. She wanted to try to turn her head from the horrible scene, but she could not move it. Was he really going to do this? 

He did. The scalpel blade pressed into the edge of the girl's hairline. A line of blood welled immediately from it. A stifled shriek of agony came from the girl's mouth. The Skinner carefully worked the scalpel up the girl's face, continuing to stay close to the hairline. His work was neat and even. When he was done, he carefully lifted up on the skin and began to slowly cut tendons and supporting muscle. All the while, screams of mortal agony came from under him. It was lengthy work, and the Skinner took his time. He wanted quality trophies to take. 

Susana could not turn her eyes away, paralyzed by the spectacle of horror taking place in front of her. Finally, the Skinner looked up. He held a piece of flesh in his hands for her to see. The girl's face, perfectly skinned. Underneath him was a red skull with eyes. 

"See?" he asked. 

But under his hands, the girl was still alive. Her face was shorn off, but she lived still. Blood leaked onto her skull and pooled in her nasal cavity. Her jaw yawed open obscenely now without the cover of lips. Her cheekbones rose like high, bloody promontories. Susana was revulsed, but her stomach seemed very very far away and never even suggested throwing up to her. She was unable to resist the urge to watch. But the girl lived, she screamed, and she saw Susana. Her eyes, the only recognizably human part of her face, implored Susana to help. Susana could not have answered that call even if she wasn't tied to the chair. All she could do was observe the horror.

The Skinner took a set of tweezers now. He reached into the girl's eye socket with one of them. The girl tried to twist away and save herself, but it was hopeless now. As the bright metal reached into the pitiful victim's eye socket, Susana did twist away and close her eyes. There was a sickening liquid pop, and then another one. 

And still from the ruined skull came the high, keening, gargling screams. _Oh, please let her die, please please, I can't take any more of this_, Susana thought crazily. _She's had enough and so have I._ She opened her mouth experimentally. She dared not look back. She did not want to see the ruined, shredded red mass that had been a pretty girl's face half an hour before. 

A single gunshot echoed in the concrete room. Susana screamed at the impossibly loud sound. She opened her eyes reluctantly to see the Skinner, standing now, with a large silver revolver in his right hand. It was aimed at the girl on the cot. Corpse on the cot, Susana amended. While the face and eye removal had not killed the girl, a single bullet to the chest had. Mercifully so, Susana thought. 

The Skinner's eyes rolled towards her behind the guards of the helmet. He raised his left hand to shoulder height. 

"Look at Me, little one," he said, his deep voice thick. He opened his left hand. In it was one of the girl's eyes. 

Susana recoiled. 

"Do you understand now?" he asked. 

Susana nodded. "You killed her," she said. "And you want to do the same thing to me." 

The Skinner waited a moment before nodding back. "Yes, little one. But not yet. There is much for you to learn." 

Susana's mind whirled. The horror of what she had just seen seared her. There was only one thing she could do, and one place she could go. She ran backwards into her mind, into her memory palace. 

Dr. Hannibal Lecter possessed a very large memory palace full of whatever he might want. He had taught his daughter this mnemonic system, and she had tried to develop it. Her memory palace was nowhere near the size of her father's. She occasionally thought hers was a memory cottage. 

But here, now, it was the only sanctuary that might offer her something other than temporary refuge. She ran inside it now, through the halls to the Library. There, she sought out the discussions that she had once had with her father, after the day he sat her down and told her that he had not been born Alonso Alvarez, nor was he an Argentine physician. 

In her palace, she opened up two thick books, bound in heavy black leather. Across one of them, in Olde English lettering, were the words RED DRAGON. Across the other were the words BUFFALO BILL. She scanned them as quickly as she could. 

"I can help you, if you spare me," she said, once she had finished reading them. She licked her lips with a tongue dry enough to light matches on. 

"I do not need your help, little one," the Skinner said mockingly. "You are here to learn." 

"I can serve, too," she pointed out. "Does the great Skinner not want servants? To assist him in…," she struggled for words. "His work?" 

The Skinner tipped his head forward. None of the others had ever suggested anything like this before. It might be interesting. And after all, it wasn't like he was obligated to keep his word to such a lesser being. 

"What did you have in mind, little one?" he asked.


	4. Meetings and journeys

_Author's note: This chapter's pretty gory too. _

The Buenos Aires police acted quickly, once they had been summoned. A uniformed officer took a statement from Clarice. Other men in suits quickly swarmed over the Mustang. It was hard for Clarice to concentrate, to not predict the questions she would be asked. She had to remember that she was no longer a law officer. She was Maria Alvarez, a wealthy socialite. 

A swarthy man in a tan raincoat walked over to her from the car. He introduced himself as Detective Garcia. The uniformed officer deferred to him, handing him Clarice's written statement. He steered Clarice into the salon, where he got her to sit down. 

"I need to ask you some questions now," he said gently. "I know it's tough, but it might help me find your daughter." 

Clarice nodded, feeling oddly out of place. She had done this before, but always as the officer, never the weepy, scared questionee. 

"Would you like some coffee before we get started?" 

"Yes, thank you," she whispered. He crossed to the salon's front desk, spoke with the woman behind the desk, and returned with two steaming mugs of black coffee. Mugs, not Styrofoam cups, Clarice noticed. No wonder her daughter liked this place. 

"Had Susana ever mentioned wanting to run away, or anything like that?" 

Clarice smiled, despite herself. "No. She's a good kid." 

"Any arguments in the past that she might not have thought were resolved? " 

Clarice shook her head and abandoned her smile. "She didn't run away, Detective Garcia." 

"I believe you," Detective Garcia said. 

"Had she met someone new, maybe? New boyfriend?" He stroked his mustache as he thought. 

"No." Clarice thought that a blessing: no boyfriend would do well with Hannibal Lecter to deal with. 

She looked up and him and took a big sip of her coffee. It burned her throat, but she did it anyway. 

"Was my daughter taken by the Skinner? Because I think she was." 

Detective Garcia exhaled and waited a few moments before answering. "I don't know," he said finally. He watched Clarice for her reaction. _He wants to see if I'll break down_, she thought.

"There is evidence that this is a Skinner crime," he said carefully. His tone was gentle and apologetic. Almost on cue, Clarice's eyes filled with tears as the bottom dropped out of her stomach. She gritted her teeth. _Daddy always said 'Don't cry'._ _ I will not be the weepy victim here, I will not. I can't be. _ She sank her teeth into her lower lip. 

"I have some people I would like to talk to you. And your husband, if you don't mind," Detective Garcia continued. "When would you be available?" 

"Anytime," Clarice said huskily, fighting the lump in her throat. "Tonight, if you like." 

He consulted his watch. "Let me call them and see. Your address is on here?" 

"Yes." 

He patted her kindly on the back. "OK then. How about you go back home, and I'll give you a call." 

"Thank you," Clarice said, and rose and shook his hand. She walked out to the car breathing very carefully. It wasn't until she was back in her own driveway that she finally let herself break down into tears. A monster had her baby, and there was nothing she could do about it. 

The servants saw her weeping behind the wheel of her car, but did not come out. _Señora _Alvarez was a strong woman, and no one on the staff wanted to be the one who saw her in such a weak moment. After a few minutes, Dr. Lecter walked calmly to the car and led his weeping wife into the house. He led her up to the top floor of the house.

Fortified with some herbal tea, Clarice told him that Susana had been taken by the Skinner. His only visible reaction was to press his lips together and lose color slightly. But Clarice knew that it had affected him much more than he let on. She told him that the police would be stopping by with some questions. 

He tilted his head at her. "You invited them?" 

"They asked," she pointed out. 

Dr. Lecter shrugged. After so many years in Buenos Aires, he felt relatively safe. And it wasn't like he could refuse them. This was his daughter's life, after all. All the same, he refilled his wife's teacup and then walked to a nearby bookshelf. From it, he selected a copy of the Holy Bible, King James Edition. He opened the book unobtrusively, not wanting Clarice to see. 

Inside the book was a hollowed-out section about six inches long. Lying in it was Dr. Lecter's Harpy. He had kept the knife for years, and it fit into his hand like an old friend. The blade was keen, the way only old, well-used blades can be. He slipped the knife into his pocket and returned to his wife. 

An hour or so later, the doorbell rang and the butler came upstairs to announce that Detective Garcia was here with some guests. Dr. Lecter and Clarice walked downstairs to greet them. 

Detective Garcia stepped forward and offered Dr. Lecter his hand. 

"Dr. Alvarez, I am Detective Garcia," he said. "I have already had the pleasure of meeting your wife." 

"_Detectivo_," nodded Dr. Lecter. 

Garcia indicated a young brunette standing behind him. "I do have someone who wishes to talk with you. But first, she asked me to ask you, do either of you speak English?" 

Clarice and Dr. Lecter shared a quick look at each other. "Yes, both of us do," Dr. Lecter answered. "I attended medical school in the United States, and Maria spent some time there in her youth." 

Detective Garcia turned back to the brunette and told her what Dr. Lecter had just said. She stepped forward and smiled. 

What happened next seemed to happen very, very slowly for Dr. Lecter, although it took place in only a few seconds. The brunette offered her hand first to him and then to Clarice. 

"Hi," she smiled with an American accent. "I'm Belle Fontaine." She reached into her pocket and withdrew a small leather case. Dr. Lecter's heart rate began to quicken. He traded a glance with Clarice. Her eyes told him that she saw it too. 

Miss Fontaine flipped open the leather case with a practiced flick of her wrist. She exposed a plastic-coated ID card. A card that he had seen before. 

"I'm with the FBI," Agent Fontaine continued. "The Buenos Aires police department has asked us for assistance in this case. I'm trying to develop a profile of the Skinner." 

For two or three heartbeats, neither Dr. Lecter nor Clarice moved, or even breathed. 

Agent Fontaine put her ID away. She looked sympathetically at Clarice, who simply stared at her blankly. "I'm sure this must be very difficult for you," she said. 

"You're in the FBI?" Clarice asked. 

"Yes, ma'am." Her accent sounded midwestern. Clarice tipped her head. _Not home. Ohio, sounds like. _

"You're in Behavioral Sciences?" 

"Yes, ma'am," Agent Fontaine repeated. A slightly puzzled look came over her face. "You've heard of it?" 

"Oh, yes," Clarice said. "Do you like it?"

"A great deal, ma'am. Is there a problem?" 

"Not at all. It's nice work if you can get it." She decided to shut up before she got herself in real trouble. "I'm sorry. We're just a little stressed here." 

"Not at all, Mrs. Alvarez." 

Special Agent Fontaine's interview was short and professional. Detective Garcia wisely made himself scarce, helping himself to the coffee offered him by the servants. Afterwards, the young FBI agent asked if she might be allowed to see Susana's room. With a horrible feeling of déjà vu, Clarice agreed. _So this is how poor Mr. Bimmel felt._ She closed her eyes and felt her mind whirl. Would Agent Fontaine come out with pictures hidden in a music box? Did Susana even _have_ a music box? 

Once Agent Fontaine was in Susana's room and they were alone, Dr. Lecter exhaled. 

"Now _there_ is some hideous irony for you," he said. 

…

_Ew, gross_, Susana Alvarez thought. A thought not terribly uncommon for a sixteen-year-old girl. Susana had better reason than most. She stood in the Skinner's kitchen. One ankle was shackled to the Skinner's dirty stove. Unpleasantly, she remembered the jokes some of the boys at school had told about women being chained to the bed with enough slack to reach the kitchen. She didn't mind the thought. Anything to distract her from what she had to do. 

Before her, on the cot, was the body of the other girl. The Skinner had carried it up for her after her suggestion to him. She had asked him if he had ever considered eating any of his victims. She hadn't expected him to make her do the cooking. But there she was, a not-terribly-sharp French chef's knife in her hand. 

It looked rather as if Susana was wearing red elbow-length gloves. She was not. Her arms were slicked with blood and gore. Retreating into her memory palace offered her some comfort, but not much help. Dr. Hannibal Lecter had been to medical school and had years of experience in medicine. Susana had not yet finished high school. Her knowledge of internal organs was severely lacking. 

The Skinner sat at his dinner table, awaiting his meal. He tipped his head at her and scowled. 

"What's taking so long?" he demanded. 

Susana turned her attention back to the long, ragged cut she had made in the abdomen of the corpse. She drew in a long, sobbing breath and pushed back a flap. Those long things had to be intestines. She felt her gorge rise in her throat. 

_Don't throw up. God only knows what he'll do to you if you throw up._

"This knife isn't sharp," she said timidly. "I'm doing it. Please." 

She decided to go for the stomach, simply because it was connected to the intestines and she could thus tell where it was. She hoped she was right. Gritting her teeth, she reached into the incision and grabbed the end of the intestines with her hand. Something liquid squirted between her fingers. She staggered for a moment, her eyes clamped shut in revulsion. 

She began to cut, forcing the nauseous feeling away. The knife did not cut easily. She looked up pleadingly at him. 

"Could I…um, if you please," she began. The Skinner pushed his chair back with a scraping sound. He rose. Susana quailed. 

"What do you want?" he asked. His tone was angry. Not good. 

"Please," Susana said. "If I could have a scalpel…this would go a lot quicker." 

The Skinner looked at her and pondered. Susana did her best to look helpless. It wasn't that hard when you were terrified. Without a word, he clomped down to the basement. He wore heavy boots, and they echoed against the floorboards. He returned a few moments later, a bright, shiny scalpel in his hand. 

"Back up against the counter," he demanded. Susana complied. The chain was barely long enough to allow her to do so. The Skinner laid the scalpel next to the incision. 

"Don't even think of trying anything," he threatened. "I'll know." 

"No, not at all," Susana said quickly, and waited until he seated himself before moving forward. 

With the scalpel, it was much easier going. She cut her hand once and cried out. The Skinner laughed. She whimpered when the stomach was finally cut loose and its contents began to seep from the holes. 

Shakily, she walked it over to the sink. Tears welled in her eyes. She refused to let them fall. In the sink, she dropped the stomach in, slit it open carefully, and rinsed it in a flow of water. She examined the cut on her hand. It wasn't too bad, she decided. She took a paper towel and pressed it against the cut. 

"Keep going," the Skinner warned. 

"But,…" Susana stammered. She had it out! What more did he want? 

"There's much more meat in there. Don't waste it," he ordered. 

"I have to rinse this out if I'm going to cook it," she implored. 

"Cut out more while it rinses," he grunted. 

Susana sighed, closed her eyes, and returned to the corpse. She retreated to her memory palace. She had added a few new rooms to it. One was her father's office. In this office, however, the name on the diploma read 'HANNIBAL LECTER' in place of 'ALONSO ALVAREZ'. Seated in his office chair, surrounded by his antiques, her father offered her counsel. 

_He is doing this because he enjoys seeing you struggle with it_, her father said. _He likes watching you suffer. Not physically, perhaps. But emotionally, psychologically. He wants to humiliate you. _

Susana pushed aside the mess of intestines, pressing her lips together to avoid doing what she wanted to do, which was throw up and then curl up in a ball on the floor crying. She had no idea which organ was what. The roll of paper towels was nearby. She reached for one surreptitiously and placed it over the ruined skull of the corpse. She simply cut out what she could and hoped it pleased him. She noticed him looking away. 

For a very long moment, she saw herself throwing the scalpel like a dart into his eye. Saw him scream and clutch at it. Or saw herself throwing it right into his heart. Then she thought about what would happen to her if she simply wounded him – or, God forbid, _missed_ him – and she set the scalpel down again with a shaking hand. 

"Is that enough?" she asked. Her voice was shaky and barely controlled. 

He examined the four or five things she had stacked on the chest of the corpse. A cruel smile wreathed his features under the odd helmet. 

"Now, wrap those up," he commanded. "And cook the stomach." 

This proved to be easier. Susana could simply wrap them in tinfoil and forget their origin. Her gorge began to drop a bit. Once the stomach was rinsed, Susana stuffed it with cheese and ground beef and seasoned it. She put it in the oven and let out a long, low sob. 

The Skinner nodded, grinning. His eyes flicked over the corpse on the cot. His lips curled back in distaste. Suddenly, he was on his feet. He crossed the distance between them in what seemed like nothing. 

His hand dug into Susana's arm. 

"What do you think you're doing, little one?" he demanded. His voice was choked with anger. 

"What?" Susana's eyes widened with terror. "I was just…it's cooking…it'll be ready in twenty minutes…," 

"No. That." He indicated the corpse 

"I don't understand," she sobbed. 

He pushed her over to the corpse and grabbed the paper towel covering what was left of its face. 

"This!" 

He grabbed her by the hair and pushed her face down to just above the corpse's. Its dead jaws yawed open as if inviting her in for a kiss. Her gorge rose. 

"You do not hide from your fate, little one. You will look at it." 

"I'm sorry," she quaked. The tears were coming now, and she could not prevent it. Her hair touched the corpse's cheekbones. Her eyes stared into its empty sockets. She planted her hands and tried fruitlessly to keep him from pressing her down any further. Her pulse beat in her ears relentlessly. He pushed her relentlessly down. Her face contacted the corpse's. It was cold, smelly, and horribly wet.

As quickly as it happened, it was over. He released her and let her stand. Like a machine, he returned to his seat. There he watched her balefully, pleased at the tears he had caused. There was a bloodstain across her forehead and one eye. How very fitting, he thought. 

Susana's jaw trembled. She dared not wipe her face. Her eyes bulged in terror and revulsion. 

Moving very carefully and deliberately, she took down a plate from the cupboard and a knife and fork. Then she cleaned up the sink with dish soap and a sponge. Next, she carefully stacked the rest of the meat in the refrigerator. 

_Concentrate on mundane things, Susana. Set the table; get a napkin. If you think too much about what just happened, you'll lose your grasp on sanity_, Dr. Lecter counseled from his office in her memory palace. 

The Skinner grinned cruelly. 

"Not just one plate, little one. Get down two." 

The oven went _ding_. 


	5. Substitutions

It had been a few days since Susana's disappearance. Clarice had not slept since the FBI had come to the house and had eaten very little. It concerned Dr. Lecter. While he was worried himself about his only daughter, he did not think that self-starvation would accomplish anything to help her. He was pondering means and ways to figure out something that would. 

Finally, he made Clarice an offer: if she would eat a full meal and sleep for four hours, then he would discuss ideas with her on what they could do to help their daughter. She had taken him up on it. Now they sat together in the living room, two cups of herbal tea in front of them. 

"So what's your big idea?" Clarice asked. 

Dr. Lecter sighed. "The strategy is simple. Get the FBI case file. The problem, Clarice, is in tactics, or getting it." He pulled from his mug of tea. 

"You should be able to figure out a way to get it," she pointed out. "Considering what you pulled in Memphis." 

Dr. Lecter sighed. "That was thirty years ago, Clarice. I'm not as young or as strong as I used to be. Perhaps I should rephrase: we need to get the FBI file _without_ getting caught and without drawing suspicion to ourselves." 

Clarice thought for a moment, her blue eyes focused inward. 

"Do we need the FBI file? There are newspaper accounts," she said. 

Dr. Lecter shook his head. "Tut-tut, Clarice. You should know better. The newspaper accounts will be at best lacking in detail and at worst completely wrong. We need our information from the source." 

Clarice shrugged. "I'll get it, then. There's only so many hotels in Buenos Aires." The look on her face told him exactly what her plan was. 

"Going in with guns blazing will not get us where we need to be," he reminded her pedantically. "You can't help Susana if you're in a prison cell. We need to avoid suspicion." 

"So what's your big plan, then?" she challenged. 

Dr. Lecter sighed. "I'm not sure. We're under a time constraint. Even if I were to give myself up--," 

"_What?_" Clarice's face was incredulous. "You _must_ be joking." 

"Not at all," Dr. Lecter said. "As Alonso Alvarez, I would have no credibility at all to gain access to the FBI file. If I were to surrender myself to the FBI, as Hannibal Lecter, then I would." 

"You're delusional," Clarice said flatly. 

"Not so. I have helped the FBI on two occasions. If I were to give myself up, presumably, they might see their way clear towards letting me save my daughter before throwing me in a cell for the rest of my life." 

Clarice slammed her mug on the table. Dr. Lecter winced, expecting it to break. It did not. 

"Jee-zus Christ on a _crutch! _Are you the same man who told me he'd never allow himself to be taken again? You're crazy to be thinking like this!" 

Dr. Lecter smiled painfully. "No, Clarice. If I surrendered myself, you might at least be able to visit me in prison, or I might be paroled at some future date. If Susana is killed, there is neither visitation nor parole from that." 

Clarice's eyes filled with tears. Her face crumpled. She was left with only the argument of insensate sorrow. "I cannot accept that the only choices are losing my husband or losing my daughter," she said before breaking down completely. 

Dr. Lecter put his arms around her and held her. While he did, he reflected. His expression was somber. 

He was very content with his life in Buenos Aires. He had money, a beautiful wife and daughter, and respect. He had expected his job to be a bore, but it had turned out to be oddly fulfilling for him: his students were sharp and intelligent and he enjoyed the work of educating young minds more than he thought. And he had once sworn never to return to custody. But then, a man's priorities change radically once he has a child. 

Given the alternatives, Dr. Lecter had to at least consider the idea. He did not want to be incarcerated, and he knew that if he was, he would die in prison. But if he did not, his daughter would die in a dank Buenos Aires basement somewhere. Put in those terms, Dr. Lecter could only do one thing: nobly offer his neck in place of his daughter's. There was no other alternative. 

In some corner of his mind, he found this amusing. He had always considered himself so apart from the rest of humanity. A man who decided for himself what he would do, who shrugged off society's moral yoke. Yet here he was, preparing to do the noble thing, to condemn himself to a lifetime of prison so that his child might live. 

So he held his wife and thought about how he might accomplish this. In the hallway appeared a figure. He looked up to see Juana, the new maid. She blinked at him in confusion. 

"Juana, please leave," he said. "This is not a good time." 

"I'm sorry, _señor,_" she replied. Her eyes were wide as she saw Clarice crying in her husband's arms. She turned around and walked away swiftly. 

"There _has_ to be some other way," Clarice sobbed against his shoulder. "There _has_ to be, Hannibal. We haven't lived this long or _fought_ this long for it to end like this."

"There may be," Dr. Lecter said. "I need some time to think about it." 

"We don't have time," Clarice objected. 

"There, there." An idea struck him. "Why don't you see what you can come up with from the papers on the prior murder. I'll see if there's some way I can obtain the FBI file quietly." 

Clarice lifted her head and moved away from him, so she could see him. 

"If you're going to steal it, I'm going with you," she declared loyally. "She's my daughter too." 

"I'm not planning on that yet," Dr. Lecter said. "And I may be old, but I do think I could take out Special Agent Fontaine on my own." 

Clarice smiled through her tears. "Don't count those young female FBI agents out," she said. 

She rose, wiped her eyes, and headed for the office. "I'll see what I can find," she said as she left. 

Hannibal Lecter rose himself and looked into the mirror. He examined his reflection carefully. The crow's feet in the corners of his eyes. The wrinkles of his forehead. His rapidly whitening hair. He was not vain in that sense and did not try to discount the fact that he was growing older. 

"Whatever am I going to do?" he asked his reflection in the mirror. He had to think of something. Clarice was depending on him. His daughter, too. 

He answered himself aloud. For a moment, he had to laugh at that – a psychiatrist talking to himself. Hardly a good sign. 

"I will do what I must," he said. "In my time, I have escaped the strictest security measures and slipped the noose laid for me by enemies and police. I will get that file, or die trying." 

After a moment, he added, "But I do hope Agent Fontaine is not as good a shot as my wife." 

…

For the past few days, Susana had followed a bleak routine. Most of her day was spent in the cell in the basement. She was kept in there while he was at work. She tried a few means of escape on the first day. The door was locked from the other side and she could not even get to one of the locks; picking was out. She tried kicking it and only ended up with a sore foot. 

Escape from the cell was not an option. So she did the only thing she could do: slept a lot and waited for the Skinner to come let her out. When she was awake in the cell, she retreated to her memory palace and sought out counsel. 

She spent a fair amount of time in her father's office, reviewing everything she knew about serial killers and running through plans to escape or kill him. When she was not there, she went to the other room she had added in her memory palace: Quantico. 

Clarice Starling would have been highly amused to see her daughter's representation of Quantico in her memory palace. Susana had never been there, or to the United States for that matter. She conceived of Quantico as a large, wooden-paneled room in which people sat at tables and studied books. In fact, Susana's Quantico bore much more resemblance to the study lounge in the University library than the subterranean corridors of the building. 

But in her Quantico, she was able to seek out the information she needed. It wasn't much, but it was useful. The Skinner was a sadist. He enjoyed seeing her suffer. He seemed to relish emotional pain more than physical, but it would suffice him to so. 

When he finally came home from work, he would let her out. The corpse had disappeared the night after she had disemboweled it, so thankfully that was no longer an issue. He usually forced her to do something humiliating: cleaning the floor or the bathroom seemed to be favorites. That wasn't too bad. Cleaning a toilet was not fun, but not even in the same league as dissecting a corpse and then being forced to eat what you pulled out. 

What was worse was that she had no idea if her cooperation was having any effect. She did not know if her predecessors had ever come up with her idea, or if he was planning to spare her at all. Occasionally, he would come up to her while her hands were occupied and silently run a finger across the skin of her face, tracing the path that the scalpel would take. Her father told her he did so only to see her tremble with fear. It didn't help. She was afraid anyway. Every time he took her out of the cell, she kept a close eye on his hands, dreading the time a pink swim cap would show up in his grasp.

Bizarrely, he required her to rub skin cream into the skin of her face. The files at Quantico, as well as her father's office, told her that he had probably gotten that idea from the Buffalo Bill killings. The reason was the same: to make sure her skin was good and supple for when he removed it. He also insisted that she use a facial mask he had bought. Susana didn't think highly of his taste in cosmetics: it reeked and was hard to get off. 

She was in her father's office, leaving her body in the cell. Her father sat behind his desk and glanced over at her. 

"He'll be coming soon," he said gently. "He's late. Any minute now." 

"I know," she answered, not wanting to think about it. 

"You need to find out if your cooperation is doing anything," he lectured her primly. 

"It's doing something already. It's sparing me pain." 

Her father raised an eyebrow in the manner he did when she came up with something that pleased him. "How do you know?" 

"There's a wire whip in the kitchen," she pointed out. "He hasn't used it on me. Yet." 

"How do you know he uses it at all?" challenged Dr. Lecter. 

Her head whipped around and fixed him with a glare that was pure Clarice Starling. "Because it's _bloody._" 

She heard footsteps and hurriedly left her father be. She did not want her captor to know of his presence. That was hers. She backed up against the wall of the cell and waited for the locks to click. 

They did, and there he stood before her. He wore black jeans, a black T-shirt, and that bizarre helmet. It had to have some meaning. Her father had told her it signified his transformation: when he wore it, he was not the man he usually was. He was the Skinner. 

"Come out of there," he demanded. 

She came out obediently, her eyes wary. He walked her upstairs with one meaty hand fastened on her upper arm. Occasionally, he dug his fingers between the muscle and the bone of her arm. He did so to watch her face twist in pain when he did. Instead of bringing her to the kitchen – her usual work location – he dragged her into the living room and threw her on the couch. 

She glanced around. The room was done in Early South American Bachelor: functional and nothing more. The carpet was green, dirty, and probably older than she was. The couch was a hideous plaid that no one with an ounce of taste would have owned. In the corner, a large TV lorded over the rest of the room. 

"You know," he huffed in that strange, deep voice, "that your time is swiftly approaching, little one." 

Susana didn't say anything. As if to indicate what he meant, he stepped forward and grabbed her hair with one hand. With the other, he traced up the side of her face. His hands smelled like rotting meat. 

"Yes, I know," she said, her eyes slitted. 

He released her and spread his hands wide. 

"What would you do," he asked, "if I were to spare you?" 

Susana pondered. She had to be very careful in how she spoke. "I would be grateful if you felt my service was enough to void my sentence," she said. 

His eyes narrowed. Susana tensed. 

"You do _not_ understand, little one," he said. "A sentence? Passed by an earthly judge? You belittle Me by thinking of Me in such a manner." 

He lunged forward and grabbed her by the hair again. This time, he yanked her forward, pushing her in front of a closed cabinet door. He threw it open with his other hand. Her head was inexorably pulled back, her face up to observe what he had to show her. 

Five glass bottles stood in the cabinet. Each one was filled with a clear liquid. Each one held a carefully removed human face. In some, the hair was still attached. Next to each was a smaller bottle with two eyes floating free in the same solution. 

His voice was choked with rage. _"Sentence_," he said, his tone wreathing the word in deadly contempt. His hand moved forward as if to slap her. Susana cringed. He did not, but she knew it was only to avoid marking her face. 

"No, little one, what has happened to you is that your soul belongs to the darkness. To Me, in other words. And you intrigue me, even though you grasp not the slightest hint of what has happened to you." 

He threw her to the floor. She rolled over and looked at him helplessly. Rolling over and exposing the nape of the neck usually mollified him, as it did most higher primates. 

"What I mean, little one," he said. "Your _sentence_, as you call it, stands. You belong to Me and will always. And what I have decreed will happen to you. There is nothing you can do, nothing you can say, that will prevent it from happening."

His hand dipped down and came up with a short, wicked-looking blade. Susana tried to get her feet under her in order to run. She hadn't even made it the entire week, she thought. 

He saw her trying to move and clamped his boot down atop her ankle. It hurt like hell. He ground his heel down, watching her face twist, amused by the fact that she refused to scream or cry. All the more reason, he thought. 

He moved his foot once she stopped trying to move. The knife was folded and disappeared into his pocket. In an almost conversational tone of voice, he continued. 

"But you intrigue me, little one. There is more depth to you than there was to the others. So…I shall test you. If you pass…I shall stay my hand." 

Susana had a queasy feeling. She felt that she would forfeit something, something very dear, if she agreed. But the alternative was a torturous and painful death. She closed her eyes and thought of a pink swim cap. And a scalpel. 

"What do you want me to do?" she asked, wondering if her soul was forfeit. 

The Skinner grabbed her arm again and led her down to the basement again. She wondered if he would lead her to her cell. He did not. He brought her to another room, not the one in which he had skinned the girl before. This was a smaller, squarish room. As seemed to be standard, there was a single lightbulb overhead. 

In the middle of the room stood another girl. Her wrists were tied over her head. A gag plugged her mouth. Her eyes were wide with fear, but surprise was added to that mix when she saw Susana. Susana gasped herself. She knew this girl. 

Her father spoke up helpfully in her mind. _Cristina Vazquez. A year older than you. The youngest daughter of Presidente Vazquez, president of the University. You played together occasionally as children. _

"On that table you will find a knife," the Skinner said mockingly. He gestured to a table just outside of Cristina's reach. 

A long, low moan of terror issued from the gag. 

"The test is as follows. You will take that knife and then you will kill her. Right here, right now. If you do not, then you must pay a forfeit." 

He lifted his silver revolver and cocked it. Probably a .357, Susana thought in the back of her mind. 

"There are some rules," he added. "No wounds on the back – just the front. She must see you do it. There must be at least ten separate wounds. All must bleed. You must stay close as she dies." 

Susana's jaw dropped. She stared at him in a look of blank shock. 

"If you do not follow these rules, or if she is not stabbed in the next thirty seconds, you will pay the forfeit." He gestured with the pistol. "The forfeit is that I will gut-shoot you and then take your face now." He laughed evilly. 

"I'm sure your mother taught you that being gut-shot is the most painful way to die. And I won't end it with another bullet. You'll die hard and slow." 

"…yes…," Susana managed. The whole thing – rules, victim, and all – seemed to be miles away. She had practiced fighting with guns and knives. Practice, with rubber weapons. But killing another human being was something she had never done before. 

"Good. Begin." 

Cristina threw herself forward, vainly trying to free herself. Susana stood rooted to the spot. She had no idea how to begin. This was someone she _knew_. What would happen to her once she was freed? 

_Just do it, Susana,_ her father said. _I had no real complaint against Officers Pembry and Boyle. But I did what I had to do. _

"One," the Skinner said. 

Susana closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She retreated to her memory palace. 

"Two," the Skinner continued, his eyes flashing in warning. 

In her memory palace, Susana sought out the information she was looking for. She scanned the book carefully. She asked her father one quick question and considered his answer carefully. 

"Three," the Skinner said irritably. The pistol began to move towards her. 

Susana opened her eyes and stepped forward slowly. She took the knife in one hand and looked carefully at it. Cristina screamed behind her gag and bounced about on her rope like a marionette. Carefully, Susana walked up to her. Her pace was controlled and her mien calm. 

"It's OK, Cristina. Calm down." 

Cristina stopped, stood, and stared at Susana. Susana saw vulnerability, terror, and hope in her eyes. She gave the bound girl a soft, friendly smile. 

"I won't hurt you," she said reassuringly. Then, above her smile, her eyes changed in an instant, becoming cold, calculating, and observing. The knife slid easily into the flesh of Cristina's stomach. Behind Susana, the Skinner nodded approvingly. 

Cristina's eyes widened further in shock and betrayal. Susana brought up her left hand and seized her hair. She brought the knife across Cristina's throat in a sudden, vicious arc. She missed the carotid artery, but the flow of blood was immediate and substantial. 

A bolt of rage entered Susana – at herself, at the Skinner, at fate for having forced her to this. Her eyes seemed to glow red at Cristina. She stabbed the bound girl again and again, adrenalin pumping her into a rage. She lost track of time, herself, and the room. There was only her hand, swinging and stabbing and the sudden, wet sound of tearing flesh. 

Finally, it was done. Susana dropped the knife and sat down on the floor, spent. She took a moment to see what she had done. Cristina hung limp, cold, and dead. What had been a live, vibrant girl until Susana came along was now a mutilated, bloody corpse. She was a killer now. 

Susana stood, ignoring the knife. She reached out and touched the gash on the other girl's neck. Her finger came back bloody. Her gorge rose and she forced it back down. Slowly, deliberately, Susana traced her finger in a line under one eye, then the other. Blooded, she turned back and faced the Skinner. 

"Are you happy now?" she asked. Her voice was tired, angry, but also calm and rational. 

The Skinner nodded. He was, indeed. The idea forming in back of his mind had passed its first test. 

"Indeed," he agreed. 


	6. Discovery

_Author's note: more unpleasantries ahead. As before, weak stomachs may want to avoid this. The Spanish phrases are courtesy of three places: the University of Chicago Spanish-English dictionary, babelfish.altavista.com, and my own memories of high-school Spanish. _

The Hotel Inter-Continental loomed on the edge of Moreno Street. It sat in the old town gaslight district, next to the financial district. It had undergone renovations several years ago and was thriving. It was indeed a fine hotel. And it was the current residence of Special Agent Belle Fontaine of the FBI, while she consulted on the Skinner killings. 

Dr. Hannibal Lecter entered the hotel, wearing a long suit and overcoat. He spoke with the front desk and checked into his room under an assumed name. He had asked for and gotten one on the same floor as Agent Fontaine. The front desk clerk took the assumed name and was most grateful to accept payment in cash. A bellboy offered to bring up Dr. Lecter's bags. Dr. Lecter gave him an American dollar and thanked him very much. 

The room was quite spacious, he thought. He had a nice view of the city, a glassed-in shower, and a hotel bathrobe. A pity he did not intend to stay terribly long. The bellboy had politely stacked Dr. Lecter's bags on a chair. Dr. Lecter took the smaller bag and opened it. 

Inside was a garment bag with the name of a Buenos Aires dry cleaner on it. Dr. Lecter had stolen it from a truck parked outside this very hotel the day before. He unzipped it now and removed its contents. 

Inside was a pair of black pants and a very gaudy jacket. It was white and had tails and gold trim and buttons. Dr. Lecter thought it horribly tacky. But still, he had to do what he had to do. 

He put on the pants and the jacket. His own white shirt would suffice. He changed his hand-painted silk tie for an inexpensive bow tie. He reached in the left pocket of the jacket and removed a small gold nametag. It read _JESÙS_ and bore the symbol and name of the Hotel Inter-Continental. He swapped out his shoes for a pair of patent leather shoes that matched the outfit. A pair of thick glasses distorted his face but not his vision and made him look like a generic old man. A pair of white gloves finished the ensemble. 

Under his fedora, Dr. Lecter's hair was dyed black. He had carefully dyed his eyebrows to match. The use of a tanning agent had successfully turned him a bronze color completely unlike his normal skin tone. Dr. Lecter removed the final item from the suitcase and slipped it into his pocket. It was a heavy leather sap, not unlike the one the Skinner had used on Dr. Lecter's only daughter. 

He exited the room, palming his key, and headed downstairs to a hallway marked _Staff Only_. Hotel guests barely noticed him. Hotel staff nodded at him, ready to help him if he looked confused. He did not, however. The blueprints for the building at City Hall told him exactly where he needed to go. 

The room-service kitchens were a warren of activity. Room-service waiters dressed similarly to Dr. Lecter milled around a wall with a long slot cut in it. There were several carts parked nearby in a hideous mash that made Dr. Lecter think of his daughter's first attempts at parallel parking. A harried-looking thin man looked up as he came in. 

"Hey!" he barked. "What are you standing around for?" 

"I'm new here," Dr. Lecter said. "They told me to come down here and deliver some orders." 

The harried man's face seemed to calm. "Oh. All right. Here, take this, then. You know where you're going?" 

"Yes, indeed," Dr. Lecter said truthfully. 

The thin man grabbed a metal cart and rolled it towards Dr. Lecter. On it were some covered plates and a small pad of paper. 

"Room 1233. Let's move it," the thin man said crisply. 

"Of course," Dr. Lecter said. He took the cart and rolled it obediently towards the service elevator. 

As he left, he felt his heart beginning to pound. Dr. Lecter was older and frailer than he had been in the past, and for a moment he was concerned. No one questioned him as he rolled away with the cart. In the elevator, he found that his heart rate slowed. He grinned. Despite it all, this was fun. It was good to know that an old fox still had a few tricks left in him. 

Dr. Lecter rode up to his own floor. He dropped by his room and opened his second bag. He removed the contents of the dishes – a plate of chicken marsala and another plate of what looked like fish. Those, he put into plastic bags and threw away in the wastebasket of his bathroom. He unpacked the contents of the second bag and loaded them into the cart. 

Agent Fontaine's room was perhaps five hundred feet down the hall. Far enough that any noise he made in his room would not be heard after he did what he needed to do, and close enough that he could cover the distance quickly. Just as well, he thought with a grin. He was a bit old for wind sprints. 

Dr. Lecter knocked on Agent Fontaine's door. He could hear her on the phone. She spoke English. 

"Who is it?" she called out. 

"Room service," Dr. Lecter called back in a heavily accented voice. 

"One minute," she told whoever was on the phone. As she approached the door, he could hear her mumbling. "I didn't order any room service." 

She opened the door. It was on the chain. Dr. Lecter smiled modestly and indicated that he could not force the cart through the three inches the chain allowed. 

"I didn't order room service. Are you sure you have the right room?" she asked. Her tone was polite but businesslike. 

Dr. Lecter was prepared for this. He raised the pad of paper to his eyes, squinting at it as if he had trouble reading. When he spoke, his voice was halting, as if English was a language he had learned the day before yesterday. 

"Eet says…'Thank you for all your help weeth the Skeener case," he said slowly. "Theese flowairs and wine are not as preety as you but are some…sig en…," 

Agent Fontaine's eyes lit up and she blushed. A small grin touched the corner of her lips. "Sign," she said automatically. 

"Sign, of our grah tee tude. Sincerely, Detective Garcia, BAPD." Dr. Lecter indicated the bouquet of roses and the bottle of wine on top of his cart. "I come in, please? You _firme_, please?" 

A snap and a metallic sound heralded Agent Fontaine opening the door for him. That same guilty smile and flush at her cheeks hinted at her pleasure at receiving unforeseen flowers. Dr. Lecter smiled foolishly as if both proud and embarrassed to be a part of this. Internally, he had to sigh and roll his eyes. Yes, the flowers were both attractive and tasteful – much better than anything that street cop would have ever picked out himself – but it was almost too easy. 

She let him roll the cart in and picked up the phone again. Dr. Lecter caught her side of the conversation as he brought in the cart. He took an inexpensive vase from under his cart and filled it with water from the room's sink. 

"Hi, Patty. Is Agent DeGraff there? All right, how about Quincy? Good, let me have him. Hi, Don. Yeah, I'm trying to send the BAPD reports through. There's a lousy connection here and they don't computerize much of their data. It's all scans. It's huge." She smiled at Dr. Lecter as he put the vase down with a flourish on her desk, next to her laptop. He lifted the wine and cradled it in his arms, raising his eyebrows at her as if to ask where she wanted it. She continued her conversation as if he wasn't there. 

"No, I told you. Five girls dead and a sixth missing." Dr. Lecter put the wine down where she indicated and perked his ears to listen. 

"You should already have postmortems on the five dead ones. I sent them up yesterday. No…I did. I got a receipt. DeGraff has them, then. The sixth? That's a Susana Alvarez, A-L-V-A-R-E-Z. Missing a few days ago. They found her car in back of a beauty salon, purse was slashed up. BAPD said the mom had tracked her down, kinda weird. Some reports of the mom being armed." She paused. "No, I haven't investigated the mother. I met them. They seemed like regular grieving parents to me. I don't think they had anything to do with it. Yes. Yes, I think she's Skinner's sixth. " She paused again. "We've got only a couple of days, then. He usually keeps them for a week or so. Yes…seven or eight days. Well, I'm trying. OK. Thanks, I'll send that out as soon as I can. G'bye, Don." 

She hung up and smiled emptily at Dr. Lecter. "Work," she said, as if it was more than mortal man could bear. 

Dr. Lecter smiled robotically. "Of course," he said. He handed her an envelope containing a very pretty card. He had bought it himself and signed Detective Garcia's name to it. He also handed her the pad. "Sign here, please," he asked. 

She signed it and handed it back to him with two American singles. He saw the slight smile come back to her face as she turned her back on him. Her thumbs slid under the envelope's flap, tearing it open. 

"Thank you, ma'am," Dr. Lecter said, and pulled the sap from his jacket pocket. He stepped forward and struck. His technique with the sap was all in the wrist, and it thocked against the back of Agent Fontaine's skull. Her eyes rolled up in her head and she sagged. Dr. Lecter caught her as she fell and guided her gently to the floor. He was not as strong as he used to be, and his shoulder objected mightily, but he still had enough strength to guide her to the floor. 

He was pleased with himself. This had gone well. Not bad for an old man. 

Quickly, Dr. Lecter reached under his cart and pulled out a laptop computer. This belonged to his daughter, and she knew best how to use it. Dr. Lecter was not computer illiterate himself, however, and he had cajoled his wife into teaching him how to do what he needed to do. Susana's computer was the top of the line, three months old, and he knew what he needed to do. 

Agent Fontaine's laptop resided on her desk. Dr. Lecter pushed the button on its DVD-ROM drive and it obediently expelled a silver disc. Written on it in marker was the phrase "ARGSKIN – consult to BAPD". Dr. Lecter lifted the disk. Susana's computer was equipped with dual DVD drives, one a DVD-ROM, one a DVD-RW. He pushed the button to open the DVD-ROM. A blank DVD was already in the writer's drive. It took just a moment to close the drive and start the duplication process. Susana's computer was quite quick, and the disk was copied in a matter of two minutes. 

He kept a close eye on Agent Fontaine nonetheless. He didn't want to kill her, if he could avoid it. She was, after all, trying to find his daughter's kidnapper. He was still a bit nervous until his daughter's computer informed him that the DVD had been successfully duplicated and asked him if he would like to make another. He put her laptop back on his cart and replaced the DVD in Agent Fontaine's computer. 

He stood over the unconscious FBI agent. 

"If you should ever try to get to know a serial killer yourself," he advised her, "don't let them get into your head. We're awfully bad that way." Gently, he lifted Agent Fontaine and put her on her couch. 

Then, he left swiftly, rolling his cart as fast as he could back to his room. There was no one else in the hall as he opened his door and went back inside. He changed back into his suit. The hotel clothing and laptop went into the smaller bag, which in turn went into the bigger bag. The bigger bag had wheels and Dr. Lecter was able to bring it along with him easily. 

At the front desk, no one paid attention to him as he left. In the suit and without the old-man glasses, he seemed just another businessman. A doorman offered to call him a taxi. Dr. Lecter gratefully accepted. The doorman helped him load his bag in the trunk and wished him a good day. 

Dr. Lecter told the taxi driver to take him to Ezeiza Airport, the international airport. At the terminal, he neither checked in to a flight nor even came close to the gates. Instead, he walked directly down from Departing Flights to the parking lot. His Jaguar awaited him there. He paid the parking attendant and drove home. 

At home, he settled in with his daughter's computer and opened the files on the DVD. An opening screen informed him that the data on the DVD was property of the FBI and the Department of Justice and threatened him with stern penalties for unauthorized use. Dr. Lecter clicked it away and got into the meat of the file. 

Clarice peeked in on him in his study. Her face lit up. "Did you get it?"

Dr. Lecter's eyebrow crooked up. "Turns out the old dog still knows a few tricks." 

…

The Skinner was intrigued by the possibilities. 

He had begun to wonder about Susana when he had first seen her. It hadn't been until she suggested eating the body that he had gotten the first real suspicions. The test had made him wonder further, especially the question she had not noticed. Now, it was time to do a bit of research and see for sure. 

The Skinner's bookcases were packed. Thick hardcover books jostled for space with inexpensive paperbacks. The Skinner chose such a cheap paperback now. The cover was black. In large, red letters was written _El silencio de los corderos: la historia verdadera de los crìmenes, el ensayo y el escape de Dr. Hannibal Lecter._ The Skinner owned a great many of these type of books, each detailing the life and times of another killer. It was important for the Skinner to know the history of those who came before him. Of course, they would all bow down to His greatness. 

The text mattered not a whit to the Skinner. He had already read this book several times and knew the story well – of Dr. Lecter's murders, his trial, and his subsequent relationship with Clarice Starling and his escape. Many of these books featured 8 pages of photos in the middle. This one did too. He flipped to the mug shot of Dr. Lecter, taken so many years ago. He stared at it, comparing it mentally to the girl who currently occupied his basement cell. He turned the page to Clarice Starling's first FBI identification photo, and the resemblance to the girl below fairly jumped out at him. On the facing page was a photograph of Dr. Lecter's left hand. The publishers of the book had felt it necessary to provide photographic proof that Dr. Lecter did indeed have the rarest form of polydactyly. He stared at the hand, the middle finger perfectly duplicated. She didn't have an extra finger. But he would check. 

Next, he removed a cheap videocassette that came from the same company. This claimed to be a documentary of Dr. Lecter. He put it into his VCR and watched. There was some grainy trial footage, not much good. Still, the Skinner leaned forward closely and hit the pause button whenever a good shot of Dr. Lecter came up. He recognized the maroon eyes immediately. After a few more minutes of watching Dr. Lecter's trial, something else came up. On the screen, the grainy figure of Dr. Lecter tilted his head pretty much all the time. As did the girl in his basement. 

And then there was the question he had slipped to her during the test. He had pointed out to her that her mother had told her that being gut-shot was the most painful way to die. In Argentina, as in other places, women rarely used guns. There were always the women of the provinces, born from farmer stock, who knew their ways around rifles, but even so, most of them learned from their fathers, not their mothers. 

Had he told any other Argentinian girl that her _mother_ had told her that being gut-shot was the most painful way to die, he probably would have gotten a stare of disbelief. Susana had simply said yes and accepted it as a matter of course. 

Simple logic. Susana's mother had taught her about guns, therefore she knew guns herself. Susana bore a strong resemblance to Clarice Starling. Therefore, Susana was Clarice Starling's daughter. And Clarice Starling had disappeared years ago with Dr. Hannibal Lecter. Tying it up neatly was the fact that both Susana and Dr. Lecter possessed maroon eyes. 

The Skinner began to laugh nervously. Could this actually be? After twenty years, had he solved one of the great popular mysteries of the twenty-first century? Was Hannibal Lecter actually here, in Buenos Aires? Was the girl in the basement cell…his daughter? 

_It is appropriate that I be the one to solve the case_, he thought. _After all, others are but mortal men. I see what they do not. I am Greater and More than they. _

Still, what did that mean? He had been right when he determined her to be deeper and and more intriguing than the others. Should he skin her anyway? Skin all of her and keep her as a trophy to his greatness? Her soul belonged to him regardless. It was a good omen. The only question was how to preserve her for his glory. 

First off, he determined, he would see what she had to say. Perhaps she would admit it to him once confronted with the evidence. Then he would decide the best way to make a trophy of her. He headed downstairs and prepared the operating room for what he planned to do. 

When he opened the door to Susana's cell, she seemed annoyed. He knew why: he was late and she was hungry. That was fine. He doubted she would be hungry for very long. He let her walk out of the cell, grabbed her arm, and walked her into the operating room. 

She knew the place, and stiffened when he pushed her through the open door. She pulled back. 

"It's all right, little one," he said reassuringly. 

Susana Alvarez, who had only the day before told a girl she wouldn't hurt her just before she stabbed her to death, looked at him distrustfully. 

"It is not your time," he said. "I have…questions for you." 

He forced her into the chair she had occupied before. This time, her wrists were strapped to the wide arms of the chair. It was palpably similar to the electric chair. She eyed him nervously. The Skinner sat down in front of her and cleared his throat. He stretched languidly, as if to indicate his complete comfort with the situation. 

"Who are you?" he asked. He grinned. The game of denial would begin. 

Susana gave him a puzzled look. She did not seem to know how to answer him. 

"Your name," he supplied. 

"Susana," she answered, looking askance at him. This was the first time he had ever asked any of his victims her name. 

"_Last_ name." 

"Alvarez," she said hesitantly. 

The Skinner sighed. "Your _real_ last name." 

"Alvarez!" she said, alarmed. 

The Skinner reached forward and grabbed her head, forcing it back against the chair. He placed his thumb just below her eye and his fingers on her eyebrow. She tried to move her head, but his grip was strong. He forced her eye open. 

"With eyes like that? I don't think so." 

"Alvarez, my last name is Alvarez, I'm not lying," she said. Notes of panic entered her voice. 

With his other hand, the Skinner uncapped a hypodermic needle. He held it above her head, where her open eye could see it. He tilted the needle so that the tip glowed in the faint, guttering light of the lightbulb. She did not scream, but she started to breathe heavily. 

"Please," she said in almost a whine. "My name is Alvarez, I don't know what that has to do with my eyes. Don't…don't put that in my eye. I'm telling you the truth." 

She tensed against the straps. The Skinner nodded. He had built the chair himself. They would hold her. He did not consider himself an unreasonable man, and he knew it was possible that Susana did not know of her own origin. Besides, if she became completely terrorized he would not be able to get his questions answered. 

So he lowered the needle and let her head go. She blinked her eyes a few times and stared at him in walleyed fear. 

"You have very interesting eyes," the Skinner said conversationally. 

She stared at him as a crippled mouse might stare at a cat and said nothing. 

"Maroon eyes. Very, very rare. But that's not the only rare thing about you, is it?" 

"I don't know what you mean," she whispered. Her breath came in great ragged sobs of fear. 

The Skinner turned his attention to her left hand. A canvas strap pinned it down by the wrist. She tried to pull it back anyway and clamped her hand into a fist. 

The Skinner sighed. "Open it or lose it," he said dangerously. 

Slowly, unwillingly, she opened her fist and let him take it. He could see the fear in her face and enjoyed it quite a bit. He put his thumb and forefinger between her middle and ring fingers and pressed outwards, encouraging her to spread her hand. 

"There's an interesting scar on your hand here," he said in that same pleasant tone. And there was. A red line started in the webbing between those two fingers and continued down half an inch to the knuckle. It was very faint and faded. 

She shuddered. "I had a growth removed from there. When I was a baby." 

The Skinner shook his head and laughed humorlessly. 

"Not a growth, Susana. An extra finger." 

He saw a flash of recogition in her eyes, for just a moment, and then he knew. She knew who she was. She was hiding it. That, he decided, was all right. It would make a good object lesson for her. 

"I don't think so," she said carefully. 

"All right, then. We'll do this your way." 

The Skinner picked up the needle again and pinned her hand down flat. He held the needle close to her hand. Her face became a portrait of fear. He gave her an honest look. 

"Last chance," he said. 

"I don't know what you want from me!" she burst out with, and fear was palpable in her voice. "It was a growth, my parents told me it was a growth, I was a baby, I don't remember myself!" 

"Admit who you are," he said simply. 

"I _told_ you that! I'm Susana Alvarez! Why won't you believe me?" 

"Because it's not true," he said shortly. He pressed the needle into the sensitive webbing between Susana's middle and ring fingers. He kept up the pressure on her wrist with his other hand to make sure that she did not get her hand free. 

Her face crumpled in pain, but she said nothing. This was willfulness, he thought. A refusal to show him he was hurting her. But he could tell. Well, fine. He pressed the needle in further. It disappeared into her skin and slipped between her knuckles. She bit her lip and set her jaw resolutely. 

The Skinner turned the needle back and forth, grinding it against the sides of her knuckles. It had the desired effect. Susana threw back her head and screamed. Her eyes burning in hate, fear, and pain, she half-snarled, half-sobbed, "That _hurts! _Why are you doing this to me?" 

"Admit who you are," he repeated. 

"I don't know what you want!" she screamed at him. He saw tears forming in her eyes and was pleased. The needle advanced into her hand. A thin spot of blood began to form at the entry point. Then, the needle stopped. It stopped because it had pierced all the way past the knuckle and lay against a bone that had no business being there anymore. 

Susana Alvarez had indeed been born with an extra finger on her left hand. The middle finger had been perfectly duplicated. It was the rarest form of polydactyly, and she had inherited it from her father. Dr. Lecter had waited until he was much older before he had his extra finger removed. The difference was largely due to Clarice Starling. 

Starling had put her foot down upon realizing that her daughter had more than the normal amount of fingers. Susana had been brought to the best surgeons in Argentina, and the extra finger had been removed when she was very young. She had no memory of ever having the finger and had only seen it in baby pictures. 

But that long-ago surgeon, not wanting to scar her any more than necessary, had left off at removing the knuckle. And now, years later, the Skinner's needle lay against that remaining bone. It caused a deep, awful pain. It was tolerable, though. Susana gritted her teeth.

Her memory palace was slightly different now, once she realized what he had wanted. The doors to Quantico and her father's office were closed and barred. She would not let the Skinner in there. 

"Please," she said. Behind the door, her father counseled: _You must appear frightened, not defiant. You must hide your resolution. If he sees that, he'll torture you until you confess. You must seem innocent, terrified, and without the knowledge he seeks. _

The terrified part was easy, at any rate. 

Susana blinked back tears of pain. "Please," she repeated shakily. "My name is Alvarez. Susana Alvarez. That is who I am. Please don't torture me anymore. I don't know the answer you want me to give." 

The Skinner watched her through slitted eyes. She seemed so believable. Perhaps she honestly did not know the true identity of her parents. He withdrew the needle and nodded. A red drop of blood formed at the point it had entered and slowly grew fat. 

"Your father," he said. "Tell me about him." 

"M-my father?" Susana shook her head, dazed, as if not expecting the question. "He's a medical school professor. And he works in the E.R. at the hospital." 

"What is his name?" 

"Alonso. Alonso Alvarez." 

The Skinner let out a long sigh and shook his head slowly. "Try again." 

Panic entered her eyes. "That's his name! I swear to God!" 

"His name," the Skinner lectured primly, "is Dr. Hannibal Lecter." 

Susana looked blank. The Skinner would never know how much acting ability she had summoned to produce that look. 

"Who?" she asked dumbly. 

"Dr. Hannibal Lecter. Surely you've heard of him." 

"I've never heard that name before," Susana said slowly. "Is he a _yanqui?" _

The Skinner's hand moved fast, pinning down her hand flat. Although threatening her eye with the needle had gotten him a great deal of fear, he didn't want to damage her eyes. He wanted them unblemished for his trophy jar. He held her hand down easily. The needle rested below Susana's scratched and chipped nail. 

"Last chance, Susana," he said. "Tell me who your father is." 

"Alonso Alvarez. Please, I beg you. He's a medical school teacher. He's not any _yanqui_. We've never even been to the U.S." 

The needle advanced forward, into the sensitive nailbed. Susana screamed shrilly. 

"It hurts, doesn't it?" The Skinner's voice dripped with mock sympathy. "When I told you your mother had told you gut-shooting was painful, you didn't react. That's because your mother taught you about guns, didn't she?" 

"Yes," Susana moaned. "She was a farmer…," 

Another eighth of an inch on the needle, another scream from Susana. "She was _not_ a farmer. She was an FBI agent. Claricia Starling. And she disappeared with Hannibal Lecter, the known killer. And _you _are their daughter." 

He had the name wrong, Susana noted with satisfaction internally. "No," she whimpered. "Please don't hurt me anymore. My mother is Maria and my father is Alonso. Not FBI, not killers, not _yanquis_." Tears streamed openly down her face; she made no effort to hide them now. 

"Admit who you are or I'll cut the rest of your fingers off," he snarled. Another jab. From behind his door, Dr. Lecter spoke to his daughter quickly. 

Susana did the only thing she could do to evade this torture. She took a deep breath, screamed as loud as she could, and fainted dead away.


	7. Three-cornered battle

After Dr. Lecter's class broke up, he returned to his office. He told the department secretary that he was going to be completing his experiments and to please have callers call back later. She agreed. Everyone at his workplace had become quite kind and supportive since Susana had disappeared. Dr. Lecter did not entirely like it. He knew they were trying to be polite and sympathetic. But there was an element of it he did not care for; the idea that he was a wounded member of the pack. 

As he went, he saw Dr. Higuara in the hallway talking with a colleague. They did not interrupt their discussion, but Dr. Higuara smiled tightly and nodded at Dr. Lecter as he passed. He avoided eye contact. Dr. Lecter was not surprised. He supposed that Dr. Higuara was feeling guilty: he probably had some sort of resentment towards Susana, and now he was faced with it. 

In his office, Dr. Lecter pulled out his daughter's laptop. He browsed past her staggeringly large music collection and opened up his copy of the FBI case file. As he perused it, he began to form his own psychological profile. 

_Intelligent. _ The killings were planned well and daring. _Has a job relating somehow to garbage, dirt, or grime_. The bodies had all been dumped in garbage dumps. _Has access to medicine and medical knowledge._ Tox screens on the victims indicated that muscle relaxants had been administered. Plus, the removal of the faces suggested that this man knew his way around a scalpel. That didn't mean he was a doctor, though. Could be another medical specialty. _His need is not sexual; it is to degrade and punish. Trophy keeper._

Then it hit him. 

Dr. Higuara was intelligent. Dr. Higuara had the same access to medicines that he himself did. Dr. Higuara had worked as a garbageman in college and medical school. And Dr. Higuara resented wealthier people than he – and all the victims had been from wealthy families. Including Susana. And the _very day _Susana had disappeared, Dr. Higuara had lectured her about her privilege. 

Dr. Lecter sat up sharply, staring at nothing, trying to get a grasp on his fury. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his Harpy. He intended to get Dr. Higuara into his office and get the information out of him, then kill him. He walked towards his door. Already he was working on how to get Dr. Higuara away from their colleague in the hall. 

He was stopped by the bulk of Detective Garcia standing in the doorway. The detective eyed the doctor and chewed his lip. 

"_Buenos dias,_" Detective Garcia said. 

"_Buenos dias, detectivo_," said Dr. Lecter. 

"I'm here to question someone. Not you," the detective said.

"Any leads on finding my daughter?" Dr. Lecter's face fell into an expression of pain that was not feigned in the least. 

"We're following up on some leads. Would you mind waiting in your office for a bit? This could get ugly." 

Dr. Lecter's mind clicked away like the efficient computer it was. The Buenos Aires police department was obviously moving as quickly as he. Impressive. This was new. 

"Of course," he said, and went back to his chair, where he continued to study the file. 

Detective Garcia nodded and walked up the hall to where two doctors stood talking. He waited patiently for a few minutes until the dark-haired doctor looked at him curiously. 

"Can I help you?" the doctor asked. 

"Are you Dr. Ramon Higuara?" Detective Garcia asked bluntly. 

The doctor drew himself up and looked surprised. "I am. Can I help you?" 

Detective Garcia flashed his badge. "Detective Garcia, BAPD. I'd like to ask you a few questions. Could we step inside your office?" 

…

That evening, Susana was quite nervous. 

It wasn't because the Skinner was cruel to her that night. In fact, it was quite the opposite. Since he had gotten home, he had actually treated her better than he had in the past. He brought her upstairs, let her eat, and did not force her to do any work. 

Instead, he allowed her to sit at his feet while he watched TV. His chivalry did not extend to allowing her much freedom – she was seated on the floor with her hands cuffed behind her back. Her ankles were shackled to a ring set in the floor. He ate popcorn and drank beer while he watched TV. Occasionally he would pass down a handful to her, watching her eat from his hand like a pet. 

That she could tolerate. If he got his jollies by feeding her like a dog, more power to him. The drinking concerned her more. Being chained and helpless around a drunken serial killer was not a promising position to be in. 

He did not mention the previous day's torture. She supposed he was embarrassed that she had successfully kept it from him. Instead, he simply sat and watched sitcom after sitcom. He spoke to her only occasionally. Susana kept her mouth shut unless he spoke to her. 

He threw his last beer can morosely in the corner, where a pile of predecessors lay. 

"I'm out of beer," he said moodily. 

Susana nodded and said nothing. He rose from his easy chair and stretched. Except for the weird helmet he always wore around her, he looked like any other man relaxing in his lounger after a hard day's work. He looked thoughtfully at her. 

"C'mon," he said, reaching for her arm. He intended to put her back in her cell. 

"No, wait," she said, and adopted a pained expression. "Please. Don't put me back there. Can't I just stay up here? I'm not going anywhere." She jingled her ankle chain. "Please? I promise I'll behave." 

The Skinner was in a somber, thoughtful mood. She had never seen him act like this before. Something had rattled him, she thought. That could be good…and it could be bad. The beer had relaxed him further. 

"All right, fine," the Skinner said, and headed for the door. Susana heard the front door slam. She sank back against the side of the recliner. Well, at least she knew she would live for fifteen more minutes, until he made it to the corner store and back. 

And then she saw it. 

There, on the floor in front of her, by her left knee, was a paper clip. 

Susana's eyes widened. Immediately, she began rolling around and trying to walk herself around to get at it. With both wrists and ankles cuffed, it wasn't easy. She ended up on her knees, her face pressed against the cheap vinyl side of the recliner, pressing herself down as far as she would go to get her cuffed hands low enough to get the damn clip. She got it once and dropped it. That made her curse in frustration once, but she set herself back to her task and succeeded. The paperclip sat in her fingers. 

She tried to work herself back into her former position just in case he came back while she worked on bending the clip to fit into the keyhole of her handcuffs. It hurt her fingers, but she pressed on. She closed her eyes and pictured the clip, bent to the proper position. 

It took a few tries to get it slipped into the keyhole correctly. She remembered her father telling her how he had done this once. She brought him forth from her memory palace in order to help. She envisioned the paper clip. Partly straightened out with just the tip bent at a right angle. She pictured the lever sticking off of the ratchets of the cuffs, holding them in place. Holding _her_ in place. 

She took a deep breath, pushed, and twisted. 

The cuff on her left wrist rolled open. Just like that, Susana was free. 

Not totally free. She brought her arms around her and unlocked the second cuff, then quickly attacked her ankle chains. Now, she was free. 

On the other side of the room was the Skinner's desk and computer. Susana sprinted for it. On the desk lay a telephone. She grabbed it and began to dial the police. She dialed the first digit, then stopped entirely. She stared at the computer monitor. 

The background the Skinner had chosen was something he liked a great deal. It was a picture taken a few days ago. A picture, specifically, of two teenaged girls. In this, the Skinner was not unlike many other men. The subject matter, however, was different. One girl was bound and gagged, and the other girl was stabbing her. The killer's face was tilted towards the camera, and the expression of rage on her face was quite clear. 

It was her own face. 

"He's got a picture," she muttered. She couldn't call the police. Not when he had proof she was a killer herself. 

Tears filled Susana's eyes. To be so close….perhaps she could flee out the window. She didn't have much time left, she knew. 

No. She was being dumb. The police might be out, but she could call someone who would help her whether she was a killer or not. She grabbed the phone and dialed her home number.

The butler answered. Susana screamed at him to get her mother on the line now. The butler was surprised, but obeyed. Thankfully, he did not ask her any questions. 

Clarice Starling's voice came over the line. "Hello? Susana?" There was disbelief in her tone.

"Mother," Susana said quickly. "Listen to me. I need you to listen to me and not interrupt. I'm alive. The Skinner has me." 

"Where are you?" Clarice asked, despite her daughter's request. 

Susana stopped. She actually did not know the address. It took her a moment to find a bill. 

"1373 Alvarenga," she said. "Hurry." 

"Call the police, Miss Chickabee," Clarice implored. 

"Can't. I'll explain later. I need you here. Now. With guns. Lots of them." 

On the other end of the line, Clarice Starling's eyes filled with tears. Elation filled her and made her feel drunk. Her baby was alive, _alive, _goddam it. She knew where Alvarenga was. Already, she was deciding which guns to take with her and what she would do. 

A sound came from the other end of the line. 

"Susana?" she asked. 

There was dead silence. 

"Miss Chickabee, answer me," she said. A sudden feeling of dread damped out the elation. 

A shout from the other end of the line and a loud thud. 

"Susana?" she screamed. 

There was heavy breathing on the other end of the line. Then the receiver was suddenly replaced. 

Clarice Starling grabbed her .45 and her car keys and ran for her car. She barely thought to call her husband's cell phone, and she was so worked up she almost drove into a tree. Thankfully, Dr. Lecter merely took the address and told her to get there and stay calm. It was advice Clarice simply could not take. 

…

Consciousness came back slowly. Susana blinked her eyes and looked around. The last thing she remembered was calling her mother. She glanced up and saw a single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. 

_Oh no. _

Susana tried to move and could not. She lowered her eyes and saw herself lying on a cot. Straps on her wrists and ankles controlled them. Three larger straps held her down. She twisted her head and saw the figure of the Skinner. His back was to her, and he was muttering to himself. 

"Goddam little traitor. I should have known she was no better than the others." He heard her twist and turned to look at her. 

"You're awake," he said. "Well, you violated my trust. And so there's only one thing left to do, little one. It's time to pay your dues." 

In his hands, he held a syringe. 

Susana screamed shrilly as loud as she could. She bucked and fishtailed on the cot she was strapped to. The Skinner walked over to her and squatted. 

"That will do you no good, little one," he said, and jabbed the needle into her cheek. He depressed the plunger and she could feel a cold sensation creeping up her jaw. He repeated the injection on the other cheek. Her jaw and neck began to go slack. She struggled to close her mouth and could not. It simply refused to respond. She could still feel, though, and she knew she would. Through all of it. 

"As you have betrayed me, " he said, "I have something extra." He gave her a second set of injections, and her face began to burn. The Skinner chuckled evilly. 

"Nerve stimulants," he explained. He touched her cheek with a fingernail, then suddenly raked it down her cheek. Susana gasped and would have screamed if she could, but too many parts of her were offline. It felt like a knife slash. 

"You'll feel it all, but twice to three times as much as the others," the Skinner gloated. He slapped her face, his own visage twisting into a mask of fury. Susana's head lolled back, and she let out a thick groan. The slap felt like a waffle iron pressed to the side of her face. "And you deserve it," he told her. "I dared to trust you. But now…you shall be mine forever." 

He walked away then and rummaged through something. Susana tried to scream, beg, do anything. He was muttering to himself as he grabbed down things from his counters. He placed a few things down beside her. She couldn't see and didn't want to know what they were anyway. 

He walked over to the foot of the cot. In his hands, he held a pink swim cap.

…

Clarice Starling pulled off the highway. Her adrenalin was way up and her heart was pounding. Nature has no greater threat than a mother whose young are threatened. And Clarice was out for blood. She swerved through traffic, cut off whomever she pleased, and used the Jaguar's 12 cylinders as much as she was able to. 

Alvarenga Street was a blue-collar neighborhood. The houses were small and old. Some were well kept and well maintained. Others sat on their tiny lots like old, tired dogs, growing more dilapidated and more depressed as time went on. There were children in the street playing soccer. Clarice honked her horn at them and screamed obscenities. They stared at the Jaguar and chattered in excitement. 

She brought the car to a halt a block up the street from 1373 and locked it up carefully. The anti-theft system meant that it should be there when she got back. But the car did not matter. Susana did. 

Clarice fought herself not to run. She walked along carefully, cautiously. The .45 was heavy in her purse. 1373 Alvarenga was a yellow bungalow. The lawn was well kept, but the paint was peeling. She eyed it carefully. In the driveway there was a door leading inside. That would do. The front door would be too obvious. 

There were some advantages to no longer being a federal officer. Clarice did not bother to knock. Instead, she simply opened the screen door, pointed the big .45 at the latch, and squeezed the trigger three times. 

…

Susana tensed again. The straps were immovable. She could not move her face or neck. 

_I won't scream,_ she thought, fighting back the horror as the Skinner slid the pink swim cap onto her head. _I will not scream. I refuse to scream._ But she knew, in the end, she would. When her very face had been torn from her and there was only a living skull, she knew she would scream. 

The Skinner settled the cap, content that her hair would be kept out of the way. He lifted his scalpel. 

"Are you ready?" he asked. "This is going to hurt." 

He pushed her head over and it lolled limply. With a flourish, the Skinner lowered the scalpel to Susana's face. He pressed it into the side of her jaw, below her ear, just where her jawbone curved up to fit into her skull proper. 

Susana's eyes widened with the pain and tears filled her eyes immediately. The gloating figure of the Skinner prismed into a blur immediately. The scalpel felt like a line of fire. She could feel blood begin flowing immediately from the cut. A low, desperate, choked moan came from her throat. 

"Yes," the Skinner said mockingly. "It hurts, doesn't it? That is what becomes a betrayer, little one. But don't worry. You belong to me in the next life as well as this one. Perhaps in that life, you may redeem yourself to Me." 

The scalpel advanced up. Susana tried to retreat to her memory palace and shut out the pain. She was only partially successful. 

_So this is how it ends, _ she thought. 

Suddenly, three loud gunshots echoed from upstairs. 

Immediately, the Skinner stood and turned his head. He knew well what had just happened. He rose and stood for a moment, thinking. 

He left the room. Susana heard him rummage through something in the hallway, then recognized the characteristic _snick_ of his .357 being cocked. She sighed. The reprieve was good, but it was only half a reprieve – if that _was_ her mother, she still had to kill the Skinner before he got her. If that was the police, then she might be saved, but would instead be imprisoned herself. 

She cast her eyes down and tried to move her head at all. By focusing every bit of willpower that she had, she was able to raise up her head a bit. Then her eyes widened involuntarily. 

When the Skinner had left, he had dropped his scalpel. It had fallen down between her right hand and her body. Lucky it hadn't cut her. 

Susana pushed her arm back and forth in its strap. Slowly, painfully, she bent her wrist as far as it would go. Her fingers brushed the handle. She grabbed at it. It bobbled in her fingers. A wave of pain slipped up her side as she cut herself accidentally. Didn't matter. 

Slowly, but determinedly, Susana began to cut the strap holding her right wrist prisoner. The scalpel cut easily through the canvas. The hard part was getting her hand in the right position. But as more and more of the canvas fell prey to the scalpel, she had more and more room, and she was not afraid to cut herself if it meant getting out. 

…

Clarice paced through the house, gun held high. She made sure to check every corner. The place fairly screamed out 'single man'. Ugly furniture, inexpensive. The sound system and computer equipment were expensive, though. The gun was out and explored each part of the house. 

No Susana, though. Strange. Was this the right address? And where the hell was Hannibal? It would take him longer to get there coming from the University, but still. 

She heard a creak of a footstep and froze. Carefully, she crept around the bedroom door and looked. She saw a man's figure stepping from the kitchen. He held a revolver at port arms and had some type of curious helmet on his head. For the second time, she was glad she was no longer a federal officer and no longer subject to their rules. She broke from her cover, firing three shots at him. 

He was inhumanly quick, ducking back into the kitchen and getting low. Clarice grinned. She pulled a second magazine from its special pocket in her purse. Moving quickly, she booted the clip out of the butt of the gun, replaced it with the second one, and put it where the second one had been in her purse. Now she had a full clip and one up the pipe. Take that. 

A strange sort of stalemate followed. She could not see him, and didn't want to go in after him. He didn't seem to want to come out after her. The reason was simple – first one to break cover put themselves in the other's line of fire. And she had the ammo advantage, so he was waiting for her to come to him. 

Clarice decided to wait a few minutes and see if his nerve broke. 

…

Susana cut the last strap off her body and rolled off the cot. She hadn't realized just how keyed up she was until she was free. She landed on the floor and trembled for a moment or two. Her heart pounded in her ears. Her face seemed aflame. The lapel of her dirty school blazer was swiftly darkening. She sat up and put a hand to the side of her throat. Her fingers came away bloody. Oh well. It could be stitched, if she got out of this alive. She was able to hold her head upright, but that was about it – her mouth hung slackly open and she could not move her head easily.

Her eyes were wide and her hands trembled as she left the room and headed down the hall. The scalpel was held before her in both hands, like a child's crucifix. Her legs trembled too. She took small steps. She was frankly terrified, feeling very much like a small child in the dark basement. 

Off to the side was a closet door. Susana had not noticed it before because it had always been locked. Now it was open. The padlock hung open on its hasp, and the metal lip stuck out drunkenly. and Susana glanced inside. She steeled herself for bodies or trophies or something else. As it turned out, it was better. 

The first thing she saw, in the center of the closet floor, was a gun case. The cutout impression of a .357 revolver was quite visible. She nudged the door open and stepped inside, stabbing the air with her scalpel. 

There was mostly gun supplies in the closet: targets, bullets, cleaning supplies. Susana reached around with her fingers, barely able to see in the faint light. She felt a wide plastic surface under her fingers. She had been raised around guns and knew a gun case when she felt one. 

_Oh please, oh please._

She slid the latches open and felt the foam of the case. At first she could only feel that, even as her fingers explored the interior of the case. And then….

Susana's heart leaped as her fingers closed around the grip of a large pistol. An automatic, no less. She opened the closet door enough to peek at her prize. 

A 9mm, she thought. H&K. A very well made, very deadly gun. She racked the slide and saw the gleam of brass. It was loaded. She quickly checked it for safety locks and found nothing. 

A wicked grin slid over Susana Alvarez Lecter's face in the faint light. 

She slipped from the closet. Just in case, she tucked the scalpel into her inside blazer pocket. She crept as quietly as she could to the stairs. After a week in captivity here, she knew well where they were. 

Then her ears pricked and she stopped. She heard a creak. Then another. 

Someone was coming down the stairs. 

…

Clarice crouched in the living room, hiding behind a chair. She had a clear field of view of only part of the kitchen. She was satisfied that he couldn't get out of the kitchen without her knowing, but if she moved closer to get him, she would be in his field of fire before she acquired him. Likewise, if he charged her, she could get to fire on him long before he picked up her position. 

Great. Mexican standoff. Well, he had at least six shots. Clarice had nine, but didn't want to give up that advantage too quickly. Besides, the guy might have a whole box of ammo in his pockets. She saw a lamp nearby and grabbed it. She lobbed it underhand, like a grenade. It exploded into shards of pottery on the kitchen floor. But there was no reaction. Damn. This guy was a cool customer. 

…

Three people in the house. Two were allies, one was alone. One knew the layout of the house, one had some knowledge, and one had none at all. The two that were allies did not know the location of each other. One could not speak, and the other was trained not to. All three were armed. It was an explosive situation, and one that would only be resolved by death.

…

Dr. Hannibal Lecter drove his own Jaguar up Alvarenga Street, following his wife's directions. He saw her car parked down the block and pulled up behind it. He picked out 1373 and walked up the sidewalk towards it. The street was dark and quiet. All of the children playing on it had been called home to their dinners. That was just as well. 

Dr. Lecter saw the door immediately, saw the bullet holes, and recognized his wife's handiwork. He reached into his pocket and removed his Harpy. Unlike his wife and daughter, Dr. Lecter neither owned nor used guns. Guns were tawdry, he thought. He had never been a fan of them. They made one's work too easy. 

He walked up the driveway and tilted his head, looking into the house. He could not see anyone moving inside. Still, he knew that Clarice was here, and more importantly, Susana was here. He wanted to find Susana. Clarice was a warrior. Dr. Lecter knew that she could take care of herself. He wanted to see his daughter more. She might need him. Although her mother had trained her to some extent, she was still young, and had more confidence than skill. He opened the screen door with his left hand, the Harpy low in his right. 

Two gunshots echoed from inside the house.


	8. Monster

__

Clarice Starling twitched when she heard the gunshots. They seemed to have come from below her. _Too quick after each other to be a revolver_, she thought. _Automatic. Gotta be. _And the Skinner wasn't budging. Or even moving. Still at the same Mexican standoff. 

She heard the door open and glanced over quickly. _Be Hannibal, be Hannibal. I don't want to have to take out someone else. _It would leave her open – for just a few seconds, but still it would leave her open. Her gun remained trained on the doorway between the kitchen and the living room. 

She saw the face of her husband and raised her left index finger to her face in a _shhh_ gesture. Dr. Lecter nodded, and glanced over at the kitchen. He pointed. Just on the other side of the wall. Clarice nodded and grinned. Showtime. 

She crept slowly forward. Dr. Lecter waited and watched quietly, spotting her as she went. She flattened her back against the wall and prepared herself mentally. Spin, point the gun, then yell for him to drop it. No, wait. That was back at the Academy. She could just shoot him now. Clarice brought up her pistol and took a deep breath. 

_Count of three, _she thought. _One…two…thr-_

Suddenly, there was a rush of motion as the Skinner, realizing he was trapped, turned tail and ran. He charged past her in the doorway. For just a moment, his big body was perfectly silhouetted in the hallway. Had Clarice's gun been pointing the right way, she could have shot him in the back. Perfect shot, took 'em right down, although on the cheap side. Didn't matter. 

_Damn! _Clarice thought. Still, she knew where he was and could worry about getting him later. Her priority, after all, was her daughter. Dr. Lecter came up to her. Although he had never been trained in police matters, he knew enough to keep it brief. 

"Stay here," he suggested. "I believe Susana is down in the basement." 

"Why?" 

"The file. Small chunks of stone found on the victims. Indicates they were kept somewhere with a stone floor." 

Clarice nodded. "OK." 

"Once I'm back, call the authorities." 

"Do you have a gun?" 

He shook his head. 

Clarice's mouth kinked. She knew him though. He would go down anyway. He would have gone down to the basement completely unarmed, if it meant Susana was there. 

"Cover my back," he said, and turned. The door to the basement stairs yawed open. 

…

Susana sat on the basement floor as steps echoed down the basement stairs. She had pressed herself into a dark corner of the basement, where the Skinner might not see her. Her back was against the wall. It offered her some support as well as the ability to keep her head up. She could see shoes now. Black leather oxfords. They looked inexpensive, though – her father would have sniffed at shoes like those. She raised the gun and waited. 

The figure was halfway down the stairs. Susana realized that it was not her father and not her mother. It wasn't a cop either. They would have announced their presence. With those choices stricken, her choice was simple, so she made it. 

Susana fired two rounds at the figure's knees. Her first shot was a bit low, but still hit in the figure's left calf. Her second shot went right where she wanted it, into the right kneecap. Her mother had taught her that this was a disabling shot. Often, the victim could never walk again. 

The figure let out a pained scream and tumbled the rest of the way down the stairs. It was a man, wearing a dark overcoat. He sat up and moaned, examining the wounds in his legs. Susana recognized him with no surprise. It was Dr. Ramon Higuara. 

She couldn't speak yet. Her cheeks and tongue were still numb. She squeezed the pistol hard and aimed it directly between Dr. Higuara's eyes. 

His head swiveled and he noticed her. Incredibly, he smiled. He raised his hands to show he was unarmed. 

"Susana?" he said. "Susana Alvarez?" 

Susana could neither acknowledge him with a nod or a word. She kept the gun trained on him. He rolled over so that he was sitting on the floor on her level. 

"Susana, did you shoot me?" he asked. His voice was pained, but calm. "You didn't have to do that. I'm not going to hurt you." He peered closer at her and noticed that she did not respond to him. 

"What happened to your face?" He smiled another pained smile and put his hands on the floor to try and scootch forward towards her. "Let me see that. I'm a doctor, you know. Let me help you." 

His voice was so calm. So rational and open. She wanted to believe him. 

But she couldn't. So she answered him the only way she could. A third bullet boomed to strike in the drywall behind him. Susana pointed at him in a gesture that perfectly conveyed her thoughts: **_That _**was a warning. 

A look of terror crossed Dr. Higuara's face. He recoiled against the wall himself. Then he looked at her in shock. 

"Susana….you don't think I did that to you, do you? I didn't. I swear to God, Susana." 

The drugs were beginning to slacken in their effect. She could move her face a bit and make expressions. Intelligible speech was still beyond her, though. 

Pleadingly, Dr. Higuara continued. 

"The police came to see me today, Susana. They wanted to know about prescriptions in my name that were for this address. I came here to check it out, Susana. I found…this." He observed her wide eyes, the gun pointed at him wavering slightly, and tried to look as innocent as he could. 

"Susana, I didn't have anything to do with this. I swear to you. I would never hurt you or anyone else. I'm a doctor. We can't. You know that, your father's a doctor." 

The gun did not move. 

"Please, Susana. Don't shoot me. You wouldn't shoot an innocent man, would you?" 

From the look on her face, she did not consider him an innocent man, or was too worked up to care. 

"All right." He pressed himself against the wall. "I can help you, Susana. Put down that gun, and let me look at your face. I won't hurt you. I promise." 

Susana looked at him. He had a smear of dirt above his eye from when he had fallen. His eyes were wide. Fear radiated from them. The legs of his slacks were darkening with blood. She decided he didn't look like Antonio Bandero anymore. 

Then both of them looked up at the stairs at the same time. 

Someone else was coming down. 

…

The Skinner crouched in his bedroom, trying to figure out what the hell to do next. That catamount with the pistol was now in control of most of his house. All he had left was this one single room. Even his trophies were out in the living room. He shook with rage, thinking how they would end up in some police locker. The poor souls of his departed slaves. They would have no more ability to gaze on Him. 

He would get them back. Get them all back. They were His by right. He snarled. But that wouldn't deal with the armed bitch, the one with the huge cannon. Then the Skinner stopped and thought. 

He had gotten only a momentary glance at her. But now that he had a moment to think, it occurred to him. The armed woman had to be Starling. If Susana was her daughter, it made sense. The books he had read had told him a great deal about Clarice Starling's killer instinct. She differed from him only in that her killing was sanctioned, he thought. That was why he had wanted to spare Susana – a soul like hers was bred for killing from killers. 

But now she would be taken from him. No, he decided. He was the Skinner. More and Greater than a man. He had once been one, but now he was More. No mere human, no matter how experienced, would stop Him. He had a mission from Fate, after all. 

The Skinner opened his bedroom door. Rage gave him strength and filled his limbs. Knowledge of His own invulnerability spread through him as he walked down the hall to the living room. He would kill Starling and take his trophies. Then go down and finish the job on Susana. It was too bad, but she would make a wonderful trophy. 

As the Skinner stepped into his living room, he did not see Clarice Starling. He glanced back and forth imperiously. His lips split in a grin, exposing his yellowed teeth. She had run before His might, of course. He stepped to his trophy case and opened it, allowing His subjects to see Him in all His glory. He spread His arms wide. 

Behind him, Clarice Starling rose from where she had hidden herself behind the couch. She fired twice, into his back. The Skinner dropped his weapon and fell in a heap. The helmet fell off and rolled in a short circle. 

Clarice approached him cautiously. Her head tilted in unconscious imitation of her husband. She knew him somewhere. But from where? Hannibal's work…Oh, wait. 

"The goddam janitor?" she asked in English. 

It was. The damn janitor from the medical school. For a moment, she almost had to laugh All this time BAPD had been looking for a doctor. But the janitor had keys to the whole damned building, had been there for years. Probably knew more than most of the students. 

Pablo the janitor glared up at Clarice in utter hatred and defeat. 

"Do it," he spat in Spanish. "You don't have the guts." 

"You think so?" Clarice answered, and double-tapped another two slugs in his head. She dismissed the dying killer without another thought. She intended to join her husband in his search for her daughter. But then she glanced over at the Skinner's computer and saw the wallpaper. 

Slowly, in shock, Clarice Starling took in the picture of her daughter stabbing another girl to death. Her eyes blinked. She turned back to the Skinner, meaning to ask him, but he could give her no answers. Now she knew why Susana had refused to call the police. 

_Doesn't matter. She's still my baby. We'll worry about this later. Get her out now. _

Clarice sat down at the computer and reviewed it quickly. What she was about to do was something she had always wanted to do as an officer. Something she would never have heard the end of had she ever done it. Now, she could. 

She typed two words that had not changed since computers first came around. 

FORMAT C:

_ALL DATA ON NON-REMOVABLE DRIVE C: WILL BE LOST! _The computer implored her, as if begging for a last-minute reprieve. 

The computer wouldn't understand _YOU GOT THAT RIGHT, BABE, _so Clarice Starling simply typed Y. Having received its orders, the computer busily set itself to the task of formatting its hard drive. Starling turned to the basement stairs. Once that was done, she would either repartition the drive or just shoot the damn thing. But now it was time to get Susana. 

…

"Susana," Dr. Higuara croaked, "someone's coming. You don't want to shoot me in front of someone, do you?" 

Susana did not reply. The gun remained centered on him. Between the sights was the bridge of Dr. Higuara's nose. But her eyes were cast up to the stairs. 

Dr. Hannibal Lecter walked slowly down the stairs. He stopped once he recognized his colleague and daughter. He didn't need to be told what had happened. 

"Alonso, thank God. Do something about your daughter, please." Dr. Higuara begged. 

"Ramon," Dr. Lecter said simply, stepping over Dr. Higuara's mangled leg as if it was a distasteful bit of garbage. 

"Please, Alonso. I didn't do anything to her. She's mad." 

"Please yourself, Ramon. Allow me a moment with my daughter, will you please, hmmm?" Dr. Lecter raised an eyebrow at his coworker. He then turned his back on the wounded man and walked up to his daughter. He squatted down beside her. 

"Susana," he said gently. Her eyes flicked to him, but she did not speak. She touched her left hand to her own cheek, then to his face. He spoke English, so that Dr. Higuara could not eavesdrop. 

"Susana, do you mean to shoot Dr. Higuara?" 

Her eyes touched his again. She did not reply. Dr. Lecter tilted his head and studied her curiously. Emotionally induced trauma shock? He put his finger gently on her neck and felt her pulse. Normal. No, that wasn't it. 

"Susana? Are you going to kill Dr. Higuara?" 

She turned her head and looked at him. Her face was slack. Curious. He had believed her to be stronger than that. But wait. Something wasn't right. She was responding to him, just not verbally. The pistol, however, never moved off Dr. Higuara's nose. 

Finally, she shrugged her shoulders. 

"Can you speak, Susana?" His voice was calm and gentle, just as it had been when he was a practicing psychiatrist. Margot Verger would have recognized it. 

Her head moved back and forth infinitesimally. No. 

"Can you understand me?" 

Her head moved up and down, ever so faintly. 

Then he remembered. Muscle relaxants injected into the victims. Probably into the face, to paralyze the facial muscles. He believed they had been conscious when skinned. An interesting idea, he thought. 

He wanted to ask her why she wanted to kill Dr. Higuara, but she could not answer that question. And anyway, he could figure out why. She believed Dr. Higuara to be the Skinner, or possibly a helper of the Skinner. 

"Why did you come here?" Dr. Lecter asked Dr. Higuara calmly. 

"The police said there were records of my prescribing injectable muscle relaxants to someone at this address," Dr. Higuara panted. "You saw. When the police came to the school. Alonso, I swear to you I had nothing to do with it. Someone must have stolen my prescription pad. Please. I'm telling you the truth." 

Dr. Lecter switched back to English and addressed his daughter. 

"Susana, you're bleeding quite badly. I want to get that cut checked out and stitched up. Your mother is calling the authorities. They'll be here soon." 

That rocked her. Dr. Lecter could see her shoulders rack and tremble. For just a moment, the gun moved off Dr. Higuara. 

"Don't worry about the authorities," Dr. Lecter said. "If you've done something you don't want them to see, it's all right. You were forced to." 

He could tell she was still terrified. She stretched out her arms to take up the shock of recoil and began hyperventilating. Dr. Lecter patted his daughter's shoulder and smiled. 

"Susana, dear, if you want to kill Dr. Higuara, you may. I will let you. But you don't have much time." He locked eyes with his daughter and nodded once to underscore his statement. 

"Now, either shoot him now, or give me the gun," Dr. Lecter said firmly. 

"What are you saying?" asked Dr. Higuara desperately. Dr. Lecter smiled at him calmingly but did not reply. The man's own fault for not learning English. 

"Susana," he said to get his daughter's attention, "either give me the gun, or do it now." 

She brought the gun in closer to her. Dr. Lecter thought she might hand it to him. 

"Give me the gun," he repeated softly. In a louder, firmer voice, he continued, "or do it now." 

She trembled. Dr. Lecter knew what was going on in her head. It was one thing, perhaps, to kill in self-defense. But to kill a wounded man in front of you begging for his life…that was another thing entirely. 

"Do it now, Susana," he said gently. "It's all right. Papa's here."

She looked at him again with a look of lunatic innocence on her face. It reminded Dr. Lecter of when she had been much younger, imploring him to keep the monsters out from under her bed. 

Monsters. It had been once said that whoever fought monsters should beware lest he become one himself. Dr. Lecter knew better. After all, the best way to defend against a monster was to be one himself. It had worked for him for years. 

"Susana," he said in a tone that was gentle, patient, yet brooked no disobedience at all, "do what you must." 

Susana raised the gun, shut her eyes, and swallowed. 

The report of the gun was deafening in the concrete space. 

Dr. Lecter rose and walked across to the gun closet he had spied coming down. He opened it, looked inside, and came out with a small revolver that had been tucked back in a corner. He walked over to Dr. Higuara's corpse and placed the gun gently down by the dead man's hand. Self-defense, pure and simple. His poor little daughter, who had endured a week of torture and mayhem, had no choice but to fire in defense of her own life. 

When he returned to Susana, he reached out his hand for the gun. She let him take it from her with no reaction. Dr. Lecter slid his arms under his daughter and lifted her carefully. He walked her up the stairs, to where Clarice Starling awaited over the corpse of the Skinner. She ran to her bloodied daughter and took a moment to look her over. 

Then she looked at her husband. 

"What was that gunshot down there?" she asked. 

"There was another one," he said gently. "He was armed, too." 

In the distance, they could hear approaching sirens. 


	9. The Abyss

Three days later, it had all been finished. The police had been in the Skinner's house. The story of the dramatic end of the Skinner and of the rescue of his sixth victim had made all the Buenos Aires papers. The Alvarez family had retreated to their mansion, and a private security guard hired specially for the occasion kept the more aggressive members of the press away. In a short public statement, Maria Alvarez asked the press to allow their daughter 'some time to heal from the horrible experience she has been through.' 

But Susana had not needed much time to heal. She had simply jumped back into her life much as she had left it. Her mother had suggested she speak to a counselor. Susana had refused, claiming that she was glad to be alive and did not need a shrink. Her therapy proved to be the Mustang. She would take the car out on the Buenos Aires expressway and push it to its limits, circling the city for hours. Once, she was stopped by a police officer. The officer, a decent man, recognized Susana and simply let her off with a warning. He could not bring himself to give a speeding ticket to a girl who had almost been vivisected two days ago. Clarice Starling knew firsthand that car therapy could often work wonders. She did not push her daughter further. 

That morning, Special Agent Belle Fontaine had come out to the house, asking to interview Susana before returning to the United States. Susana had agreed. They had stayed together in Susana's room for hours. Neither of her parents asked what had gone on or what they had discussed.. Agent Fontaine had looked curiously at Clarice when she came in, and complimented her on her shooting. Starling thanked her and told her she liked to go to the range. She didn't feel the need to point out that she had been three-time interservice pistol champion. 

After that, Susana had taken her keys and disappeared. The Mustang vanished, off to pursue her lonely rounds around the expressways again. When she returned, she simply went up to her room and closed the door. The car's hood had been unpleasantly hot. It sat clicking and cooling in the driveway, waiting for its mistress to call upon it again. 

Susana sat out on the terrace attached to her room. She had a glass of wine in one hand and a sketch pad in the other. Her father's talent for drawing showed in the portrait she was drawing. She turned her head as her father came hesitantly out onto the terrace to join her. He bore a newspaper in his hand and a look of concern on his face. He glanced at the wine glass for a moment. Clarice normally would have disapproved, but under the circumstances, it was understandable. 

"Hello, Susana," he said. "What are you drinking?" 

"Y'quem," she replied distantly. She did not meet his eyes. An empty glass sat next to hers, and she gestured at it. Dr. Lecter poured himself a glass and sat down companionably next to her. 

He showed her the front page of the paper. It was the Argentinian edition of an American trash tabloid called the _National Tattler_. The headline read _BEAUTY AND THE BEAST: SKINNER KILLED IN DRAMATIC RESCUE._ Underneath it was Susana's yearbook picture and the Skinner's driver's license picture. Under that, a picture of the Skinner being taken out of his house on a covered stretcher. 

Susana scanned the story briefly. It was mostly accurate, although given to extremism. Susana herself was described as 'the innocent, pretty young schoolgirl', the Skinner 'a vicious, perverted killer driven to perform unspeakable horrors on young women', her mother 'an avenging angel whose motherly drives led her to confront the killer'. The Tattler blathered this sort of nonsense all the time. From the article, Susana noted that the Tattler staff seemed to have no idea at all that this was not the first time Alonso and Maria Alvarez had appeared in their paper, albeit under different names. 

She chuckled and closed the paper. 

"Innocent, pretty young schoolgirl?" she asked quizzically. 

Dr. Lecter shrugged. "I didn't write it." 

"They didn't research me very well," she said, and lifted her sketch pad again. Her pencil scratched over the surface of the paper. 

"What are you drawing?" Dr. Lecter asked. 

She tilted the pad and showed him the portrait of the cowering man, his hands up to ward off the bullet. It was a good likeness of Dr. Higuara in the last moments of his life. He noted that Susana had not drawn herself. 

"Does that still bother you?" he asked solicitously.

She took several moments before answering. "No," she said finally. "I was terrified when I did it. And I didn't know if I could believe him or not when he said he didn't have anything to do with it." She took a sip of wine to fortify herself. "I wouldn't have done it if I had known he wasn't part of it. But it doesn't bother me. I did what I had to do." 

Dr. Lecter nodded. 

"I was so scared," she added absently. 

"You felt it was necessary," Dr. Lecter said . "To protect yourself." 

Susana put down her glass of wine. She shook her head. "No, Papa." 

"How do you mean?" 

"I knew he wouldn't hurt me," she explained. "Couldn't hurt me. I had kneecapped him. What could he have done?" 

Dr. Lecter leaned forward a micron in his chair. "So, then, why?" 

Susana tilted her head and looked at her father curiously. Without it being spoken, it was clear the question puzzled her. After all, Dr. Lecter had told her to do it himself. 

"I don't know," she confessed. 

Dr. Lecter nodded companionably. "It will take time to come to grips with this experience," he said calmly. Then, after a moment, he cleared his throat. 

"I do want to ask you a question, though," he told his daughter. He seemed uncomfortable. 

Susana looked at him over the rim of her glass. "All right then. Ask." 

"Have you…found other ways of dealing with this experience?" 

Susana gave him a blank look. "How do you mean?" 

Dr. Lecter reached into his jacket pocket. He cleared his throat uncomfortably. 

"When I came in your room to see if you were out here, I found this on your desk," he said. He handed her a flat black leather case. He flipped it open to reveal the FBI credentials of Special Agent Belle Fontaine. "It was right out in the open. There was no attempt made to hide it." 

Susana seemed not terribly surprised to see it. "She was here this morning to interview me," she said. "Did she leave that behind?" She extended her hand and took the case from him. It disappeared smoothly into her purse. 

Dr. Lecter studied his daughter. Her face was placid and she radiated calm and poise. On the side of her face was a bandage where the best plastic surgeon in Buenos Aires had closed her wound. Her left hand held the wineglass loosely. Her nails had been restored to their former pristine glory. Strange, Dr. Lecter thought. Clarice was perfectly happy running around with bare, stubby, and unmanicured nails. Susana refused to leave the house without proper nails, makeup, and hair. She looked the perfect young sophisticate, unbothered by his questions. 

"The American consulate is two blocks from school," Susana said calmly. "I'll drop it off there. I'm sure they'll get it to the right place." 

Dr. Lecter leaned forward and put his wineglass down. He locked eyes with his daughter and put his hands on the table. 

"I'll ask this once, Susana. Did you or didn't you?" 

The monster smoothed down her skirt and arched a precisely shaped brow. She tilted her head at her sire and stared back at him with maroon eyes the same shade as his. She smiled coldly at him, exposing perfectly even, white teeth. 

"Did I or didn't I what? What are you talking about? Oh, I should also tell you. I gave the cook the night off. I'll be making dinner tonight." 

For perhaps the first time in his life, Dr. Hannibal Lecter did not know what to say. He looked into his daughter's expression and saw his own. Her eyes were coolly amused as she watched him. There was more going on behind them, but she would never deign to say what. There was an abyss behind her eyes. She sat on one side, watching across that abyss, and allowed only what she wanted to cross back to him. Just as he had been the day a young FBI agent not much older than Susana was now paid a visit to his basement cell. He looked at her and saw himself. 

"But, Agent Fontaine--," he asked. 

"Agent Fontaine? You can call her, but you'll have to wait. Her plane left an hour ago, doesn't touch down for several more hours. It's a long flight to Miami, you know." A small smile played about the corner of the monster's lips. 

"I hope you like dinner, papa. It's one of your favorites." 

FIN 


End file.
